An American Odyssey
by TheAmateur
Summary: A diverse group of individuals come together in Northwest Pennsylvania as the Green Flu makes headlines. As the US goes to Hell, these people form an unlikely brotherhood, fighting for their very survival as they try to make their way south to Florida.
1. Prologue

Prologue

_Hunger_

That was all the young man had felt for the past week. Truth be told, hunger was one of the few things he still retained the ability to feel at all.

The man shuffled awkwardly down the street, making his way patiently past the broken street windows. Rubbish and garbage was strewn all over the place, agitated by the occasional dry summer breeze. Corpses littered the street, but the man paid them no special attention. They had been dead a long time and were not suitable for eating.

Others like him shuffled up and down the street as well, wandering around like aimless specters, shadows of what they had once been. The man ignored all of them as well and they him. They were not food; therefore, they were not worth his attention.

The man had had dirty-blond hair at one point in his previous life, but over half of it had fallen away, exposing the rotted, pockmarked scalp underneath. His shirt was gone and his pants were torn, resembling more rags than respectable articles of clothing. He had dozens of scars, lacerations, and abrasions crisscrossing his bare torso.

His left arm was also missing, blown off by a stray shotgun shell fired by another, dark-skinned man in another time and place. The man had already forgotten the dark-skinned man, forgotten the pleasure he had felt as he sank his teeth into the shooter's neck, feeling the dark-skinned man's blood spurting all over his face. He still bore the stains.

To be technically honest, the man did not have any memory. Higher brain functions such as those were alien to him. He felt only raw, animalistic desires for sustenance.

The man did not know how long he had been walking. Had he still retained the human ability to think, he would have guessed—based on the rising and setting of the sun—that at least a week had passed. He had killed and eaten many along the way; his stomach protruded far out beyond the waistband of his tattered jeans, full of the flesh of his unfortunate victims. But again, he did not remember any of this. He kills, he eats, he moves on to kill and eat again. An endless cycle, a perpetual routine with no outcome, no ending other than wasting away.

The man did not have the ability to consider his situation. He did not have a left arm, but he could still walk and he could still use his mouth. What more could he possibly need?

It was hot, sticky. Summer. The man was able to feel temperature, but it did not affect him. Hot, cold, wind, rain, snow; the man would slog through them all in order to continue his endless hunt for his next meal.

He had started in a large city. Buildings, tall skyscrapers, shattered doors, overturned vending carts, screaming victims, streams of blood running down the streets and into the sewers. The man had walked through the hell of that place as it collapsed all around him.

He walked, and walked, and walked.

Eventually, sidewalks and buildings transformed into green forests and wide, rolling fields. He walked even more, pushing through the tall grass and the trees. He had come across many meals along the way, places where his victims gathered. Collections of houses, barricaded buildings.

They had all screamed so deliciously. The man had ignored their cries, taking pleasure only in their flesh and not the ear-splitting noises they made.

After a time, the green countryside had turned back into a city. More buildings and shops and houses, all of them either empty, burned out, or broken down. The great light in the sky was not nearly as visible as it had been previously, masked behind a layer soot and smoke from the countless fires burning across the city.

The man shuffled his way through a narrow place. He walked over a pile of torn-up corpses, paying no heed to the stink of the viscera sprawled all over the sidewalk, nor of the rats, flies, and maggots making their abode in them.

He emerged into a wider place which stretched off forever to either side. Dozens of others, shuffling about aimlessly, also occupied the wider place. The man stood still for a second, plagued by a brief moment of indecision, unsure of which direction to go.

Then he smelled it.

It was only a brief, faint odor, but there was something about it which drove his senses wild. It was a wonderful, _wonderful_ smell…he had to get to it. He had to reach it, no matter what the cost would be.

The dozens of others shuffling about the wider place smelled it too. As one, they all froze, their heads turned up to the sky, sniffing the air, catching more whiffs of that fantastical, tempting scent.

The man was the first to break the silence. From his throat came a deep, raspy moan, which then intensified into a vicious, growling snarl. Saliva dribbled down from what remained of his chin and his knees bent, lowering himself into a predatory stance.

Then he ran. He ran like another meal was just around the corner, flying past the nameless, generic shops, past all of the piles of corpses, past all of the other shambling people.

Others joined in. Dozens of other people who had caught whiff of that smell fell in step behind the man.

The man, though he had been the forerunner of the horde, quickly lagged behind and soon became one of the stragglers. That same dark-skinned man had also hit him in the leg, though the shot had not been enough to separate the limb from the body. The man had not given the dark-skinned shooter a second chance, either.

Agonized, angry rasps and snarls erupted from the man's throat as he spotted the source of the smell. There were five figures standing their ground in front of a flat, blank brick wall. Two of them were covered in a slimy, greenish substance which was the source of the smell which was driving the man and all of the others wild. In their hands they held shiny metal objects, objects which gave off loud, sharp, miniature explosions which hurt the man's ears, and tiny—though bright—gouts of flame shot from the ends of their long parts along with those explosions.

The man did not feel anything as his brethren fell all around him. He moved as fast as he could, but it was no faster than a slow jog. Soon, he was alone on the street, the once-mighty horde now in pieces all over the asphalt and concrete.

The five figures against the wall did not notice him. They straightened up and conversed which each other. The man could not understand them, nor grasp the concept that they were communicating.

He spotted one man, a large, muscular man in a blue-colored uniform and some sort of hat. He had dark skin as well. That was why the man chose him as his first target. He could not remember the dark-skinned man who had blown away his left arm, but the image of dark skin had been imprinted in what remained of his mind. Though he could not know why, the man was driven into a rage at the sight of this new dark-skinned man.

The future victim's back was turned, his neck exposed, begging to the man, begging him to bite into it and lay it open. The man slowed down so that he made less sound and closed the remaining distance between him and the dark-skinned, uniformed man.

He had been walking for so long, so long…he needed to eat. This man would be his next meal.

The man reached forward and grasped the dark-skinned man by his shoulder, leaning in to strike.

Loud noises arose from the dark-skinned man's companions, but they were gibberish to the man.

The man opened his mouth, which was rapidly watering at the prospect at having more blissful flesh to chew and to enjoy.

The dark-skinned man was not a pushover. He felt the touch of the man and quickly whipped around, slamming a meaty fist into the side of the man's face.

The man felt pain explode in the right side of his face as what remained of his jaw cracked and fell away. He staggered, trying to regain his balance. He hit the wall and used it to keep himself upright. He turned back around to face the dark-skinned man, who had brought his shiny metal object about. The long end was pointing right at the man.

The man did not care. All that mattered was his next meal. Time to eat. Time to eat. Time to-

The dark-skinned man's finger moved and the metal object in his hands gave off another loud explosion, accompanied by a bright, blinding flash, which was the last thing the man ever saw.

* * *

The African-American man in the police uniform racked the pump of his Mossberg-590 tactical shotgun, sliding the next shell up into the firing chamber. The smell of weapons discharge from the firefight still hung in the air.

The Infected who had just tried to tear out his throat from behind was thrown back by the force of the shotgun shell, the top of its head blown away. It collapsed onto the sidewalk and—for the most part—lay still, apart from the occasional twitch of its legs or its single remaining arm. The infected man must have been a straggler, sneaking up after the last of its fellows had all been gunned down. It had leaped for the African-American police officer first. Only a startled warning shout from his fellow survivors had alerted the officer to what was about to happen, effectively saving his life.

Smoke still curled up from the end of the barrel of the police officer's Mossberg, adding its own trace contribution to the smog in the air.

"Thanks for the yell," the officer said to one of his fellow survivors—a lean, wiry Hispanic man of nineteen or twenty. "Sneaky bastard nearly had me there."

"Don' worry 'bout it, _amigo_," the Hispanic teenager shrugged, slapping another clip into his illegally-owned handgun, "There'll be a lot more ass-saving in the future for all of us."

"You all saw that fat one?" a third survivor asked, running his fingers through the thick, green bile which stained his fatigues. "He freakin' _retched_ on me..."

"Yeah, I saw that too," the Hispanic nodded, the expression on his face the epitome of disgust, "That shit was fuckin' _nasty_, man..."

"Where to now?" a fourth survivor—a yellow-haired street artist—spoke up, sliding her pistol into the tiny space beneath the back of her jeans' waistband.

The officer pointed north, up the street the most recent horde had just attacked them from.

"Have you lost your mind?" the last of the survivors interrupted. He was a taller, older man wearing what had used to be a white, immaculate dress shirt for a suit. He was mostly bald, though he did have somewhat thick, brown, curly hair around the fringes and temples. He spoke with a pronounced, proper accent, almost British, but with audible traces of Boston mixed in. "If you care to recall, that is where this whole thing _started_. Logic would dictate we travel in the opposite direction."

"No," the officer shook his head, pointing north up the street again, "That is where the secondary city evac is. With the evacuation center at the park gone, that is our only chance. Otherwise we'll have to walk out o' this goddamned city on foot. If that's the case, then hell, we might as well put bullets in our heads; it'll be easier that way."

"No sense in waiting around for the fuckers to get another shot at us, yo," the Hispanic teenager interjected, fidgeting nervously as he heard moans in the distance.

"Everyone check your ammo. Check for bites, scratches, anything," the police officer ordered.

The other four survivors all did so, peeking under their clothing for any injuries and making sure their weapons were fully loaded and ready to shoot at a moment's notice. One by one, they all gave the policeman a nod.

The police officer hefted his shotgun and carried it on his shoulder, stepping off the sidewalk and onto the street, leading the way north. "It's getting late. We need to find someplace safe to sack out before dark."

The survivors fell in step behind the policeman, their weapons at the ready, their eyes ever vigilant as they forged ever deeper into Hell.

* * *

_Author's Note_

_Hey, what's up everyone. I'm new in this area of the website and this is my first attempt at L4D. I've written two Halo stories and, frankly, I need something new. My second Halo story is not yet complete, so I won't be updating this one yet; I just needed to get something in writing to start from. I'll get back to this one very soon, so I hope you all enjoy it!_

_-TheAmateur_


	2. Chapter 1: Harmless Speculation

Chapter One: Harmless Speculation

Sergeant Jerome Wallace was yawning as he pulled into the 13th Precinct police compound, coming off of the end of his Third Watch shift at eleven o'clock at night. "Hell of a night," the veteran officer murmured.

Officer Hank Welsh shifted in the passenger seat, getting into a more comfortable position. The junior partner of the sergeant driving the patrol car grunted in agreement.

It had been a heavy shift tonight. The southern districts of the city had never exactly been what most would call law-abiding and calm, but this past night had had more than the usual amount of goodies for the police force of the 13th Precinct to respond to. In the past eight hours, Sergeant Wallace and Officer Welsh had broken up no less than a dozen streetfights between the local gangs.

Streetfights were easy. Most of those kids thought that slapping on a 'too and being able to pull the trigger of a revolver made them the toughest sons of bitches ever to walk God's Green Earth. Some of them actually were what kids these days would call 'hard-assed', but the majority of them were insecure little pansies with something to prove, a problem with parents, or an inflated ego. Same deal with the ones during tonight's third watch. Sergeant Wallace still had blood on his knuckles and a slightly swollen lip, trophies from his endeavors to educate those very same adolescents who seemed to think that the streets of the southern districts were their own personal fighting grounds.

While streetfights were easy, armed robbery, on the other hand, was not. This was the third watch's proverbial 'icing on the cake' for the night. A call had come in around six o'clock reporting a duo of masked teenagers holding up a Rite-Aid. Aerial support was called in to follow those kids' vehicle, which was speeding down 15th Avenue. Sergeant Wallace and Officer Welsh and many others from the 13th Precinct had worked with officers from several other precincts to set up the road block which ultimately put an end to those teenagers' escapades through the downtown area.

After that had finished, the police force _then_ had the pleasant task of cleaning up the five-car pile-up caused by those kids' rampage down 15th. The ambulances and fire crews got in smooth and fine, retrieving the crash victims and quenching the life-threatening fires. Insurance crews also showed up, as well as auxiliary personnel who catalogued the crash site, taking photos and samples, presumably for later use in the court case which would undoubtedly be filed against the two criminals. They all cleared out for the street crews to come in and clear away the wreckage, freeing up the road for use.

The whole thing had cost a significant sum in damages, as well as chaotic backups all the way back to the river. It was enough to make anyone in the law enforcement agencies an instant alcoholic. All in all, it was just another day's work.

Sergeant Wallace pulled into his normal parking space and killed the engine, opening the doors and swinging out of the squad car. He allowed himself another yawn and a long stretch before adjusting his hat and heading off into the HQ building, his junior partner hot on his heels.

The veteran police sergeant pushed open the doors and walked in, only to come face to face with Sergeant Carson, who was just clocking out. "Hey, Reg," the black sergeant greeted his old friend from the academy with his customary bear-hug, "How's things?"

"Mm, shitty," Sergeant Reginald Carson replied, "Got stuck on traffic detail after those teenagers tore up 15th Avenue. You wouldn't believe the backups and road congestion those two assholes caused."

"I hear ya, man," Wallace sighed, "I was on detail for the accident. No idea who those kids were, but they just fucked themselves over royally for the rest of their miserable lives. I gotta quickly write up a report for the captain, so I'll see you tomorrow."

"Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to stop by the Sidewinder," Carson suggested to his old friend, "Hell, you can even bring your rook if you want," the other veteran officer chuckled, motioning towards Officer Welsh.

"Thanks, but I think I'll just call it a night," Welsh said, clocking himself out, "I'll see you guys tomorrow afternoon."

Wallace and Carson both clapped the younger officer on the shoulder on his way out.

Sergeant Wallace considered his friend's proposition for a few seconds. The Sidewinder was not a very far walk from the station, and neither was his home. He would never drive after a visit to the local pub, so he would have to make sure he didn't get too buzzed to be able to walk back to his apartment. "Sure," Wallace shrugged, "Sure, just hang around for five minutes while I finish my report."

Jerome Wallace ducked through the front lobby of the police station and climbed the stairwell up to the second floor, which contained the cubicles of every officer in the 13th Precinct. Other officers from the first watch, or the graveyard shift, had arrived before Wallace checked back in.

Sergeant Wallace exchanged a few friendly glances and words with several of them before he reached his desk. He sat down and booted up his computer, accessing his personal logs. His fingers were a blur as he typed up his post report of the car chase and subsequent multi-pileup collision on 15th Avenue. After he finished up, he saved the file, printed it out, and then got up and slid it through the paper slot set in the captain's office door.

That done, he headed into the locker rooms and changed out of his uniform, neatly folding it up and stowing it in his locker, slipping back into his white t-shirt and tattered jeans.

Sergeant Carson was still waiting for Wallace at the entrance. Wallace hollered goodbye over to the officer lounging at the front desk and then clocked out. "Shall we?"

Carson chuckled in the affirmative, leading the way out of the station.

The two off-duty cops headed out onto the street, walking down along the sidewalk, guided by the glow of the streetlights and the light coming from the handful of joints lining the street which were still open, despite the late hours.

At night, a whole new world emerged in the city. By day, the city was full of hardworking, bustling life. Everything was fast-paced, rushed, and detached. After the sun went down and night reigned supreme, however, the night people came out. People going to bars, revelers, insomniacs, you name it. The atmosphere became more calm, more serene than daytime.

Sergeant Wallace was no partier, but he enjoyed the nighttime feeling a lot more than the rush of the day. He also sometimes preferred having graveyard shift, as not as much happened during the night when most of the city's half a million inhabitants were asleep.

The walk to the Sidewinder took ten minutes. Other late-night joints were open on this part of the street, but the Sidewinder commanded the corner of 24th and Hewitt. The pub was Irish-influenced, taking after Seamus McNealson, the Irish owner.

Seamus himself was the one manning the bar tonight. That was good; he personally knew both Wallace and Carson, and would give them special treatment more often than not. Other than him, though, the bar was almost empty; strange for the Sidewinder, but every so often it would happen.

Only one other person was present; a dirty, shorter, older man with soot stains on his lined face and beard, and the distinct smell of hard liquor on his breath. He practically lived in the Sidewinder when he wasn't working in the coalmines up to the northwest. He was the constant, the person who was always there, no matter what. Even the outbreak of what the Health Administration was calling a new strain of the flu wasn't enough to deter him.

"Hey, Ted," Wallace greeted the local drunk as he and Carson walked into the pub, pushing open the door and jingling the bell which hung from the top. "How've ya been?"

"Eh? No' bad, no' bad…thingsh been be'er 'n 'ther 'imes 'n 'nywun'd 'gree, eh?" Ted replied in his own drunkard's tongue.

"Uh…yeah," Wallace replied, unsure what to say to something which had not been spoken in any civilized language. "Keep up with that, buddy."

"'Ank ya, shur," Ted mumbled.

"Ah, my brave and valiant heroes," Seamus exclaimed as the two off-duty cops brushed past Ted and walked through the tables and up to the bar, "Come to rest after a hard day of keeping humble citizens like myself safe from the unspeakable evils of the streets. What'll it be today?" the rotund, red-haired, potbellied Irishman asked.

"I'll have my usual," Wallace said as he slid into one of the stools parked in front of the bar, "Just a pint; I want to be able to walk home."

"Same old self-control as always," Seamus chuckled as he flipped a beer glass through the air with the ease and grace of a circus juggler, holding it under the bar and pulling one of the taps. "What about you, Reg?"

"Give me the same," Carson murmured, sliding into the stool next to his friend. He drummed his fingers for a second, small internal conflicts visible in his face, before he ended up reconsidering. "You know what? Scratch that; give me some of that Kraut lager you have stored in the back room."

Seamus slid Wallace's drink across the bar to the black police sergeant before giving a hurried nod and vanishing into the back room, returning with a glass of Samichlaus lager, imported straight from Germany. Dark as midnight, the brew was a rare find. Seamus's ability to procure it, among many other things, made him very popular with his tenants and his pub just as successful.

"Tough day, eh?" Seamus inquired as he set the lager down on the bar and pushed it over to the second cop. "I can usually tell by the drink choice."

"You don't know the half of it…" Carson muttered.

"I expect you had something to do with that bloody car chase the nine o'clock and eleven o'clock news were yammering on about?"

Carson grunted. The jovial Irish bartender didn't miss much. "That was part of it, yeah."

"Hm," Seamus nodded. He reached down and produced a wet rag and started to wipe down the bar with disinfectant. "Well, you can drown your sorrows here, so long as you don't go about smashing my windows and tables."

The commercial on the TV set above and behind the corner of the bar finally finished and it switched back to a late-night news report, piercing the ambient hum with the carefully pronounced and enunciated words of the anchor. There were a few minutes of coverage about the whole 15th Avenue ordeal, several mentions of other minor incidents throughout the other parts of the city, and lastly a mention of more cases of the strange sickness which had sprung up two days or so ago.

"More people are coming down with that flu?" Carson observed, eyeing the captions on the TV to be sure that he didn't mishear the news anchor's words. "I thought they had that under control."

"No one knows much about it," Seamus remarked, picking up a pair of mugs and wiping them down with his rag, "Which is strange when you think about it. I mean, there have been plenty of disease scares before. Look at the whole swine flu panic this past year; once one person catches wind of some new, mysterious disease which can kill, the media gobbles it up and shoots it out their asses so far and fast you'd think it ran on dilithium crystals. Not this time. We've all heard the reports of strange flu strains popping up nearby, but the media's been pretty mum about it."

"Yeah…yeah, I can see where you're coming from…" Wallace murmured after taking another sip. "I don't hear anything much in the station; we're not exactly the nexus of current events, but now that I think about it there _have_ been odd reports coming in from Fairfield, Newburg, and a few other cities southeast of us. Reports of that same sickness—they're all calling it some sort of flu. I heard something about the patients acting abnormally, but…" Wallace took another sip of his drink and shrugged, "Ach…it was probably nothing. It'd amaze you what makes people cry 'wolf' these days…"

"I don't know," Carson didn't sound convinced, "Several people from my neighborhood came down sick a few days ago and were admitted into the hospital. I haven't seen any of them since. I've also seen CEDA officials and authorities popping up all over the city. Something doesn't add up."

"Nothing ever does," Wallace dismissed his friend with a wave, "CEDA always pulls shit like this when someone sneezes. It's nothing."

"If you say so, mate," Seamus shrugged, "I don't really care what's going on; all I see is some disease making my usual regulars sick. If this goes on for much longer, I'm gonna start losing business. Hell, I've already had half my daytime staff call in sick, and I haven't heard a peep from any of them ever since."

"Ah well," Wallace shrugged, finishing the last remnants of his drink. He stayed and chatted with Seamus and Carson for a little while longer, getting caught up on his Irish friend's life. He had not been in the Sidewinder for nearly a week; there was enough to talk about to easily pass the time.

Finally, around one o'clock, Wallace let out a weary yawn and left his money on the bar for Seamus to collect. "I think I'm gonna turn in, fellas," the veteran police sergeant sighed, "It's been a long day; Jerome Wallace needs his sleep. You still on third watch, Reg?"

"Mm-hmm," Carson nodded, "We both are, until the captain reassigns us."

"Alright…alright, I'll see you tomorrow, then," Wallace slid off of the stool and stood on his feet, pushing his seat back under the bar. "Until next time, Seamus."

"Have a good one, mate," Seamus tipped his hat.

Wallace said goodbye to Ted and pushed open the entrance, walking back out into the sidewalk. Two ambulances sped by, lights and sirens blaring. Wallace watched them go for a moment, wondering if they were carrying more people who had come down with that new flu strain which was making its way through the area. He shrugged and returned his gaze to the sidewalk ahead of him as he made his way down the street.

Sergeant Wallace's apartment was a good half-hour's walk from the Sidewinder. Normally he would take the bus, but the public transportation did not come to that particular part of the city during the wee hours of the night; they stuck to the main roads.

Wallace reached his apartment thirty-five minutes later, yawning again as he inserted his house key into the lock, turning it and opening the door. He walked through and locked up behind him before turning and heading straight upstairs and into his bedroom. He was single; he had never married, nor did he have any living family. His parents had passed away years ago. He shared this apartment with no one else but his conscience.

He reflected on the past day's events as he stripped out of his shirt and jeans, tossing them straight into the washing machine, which he ran every Monday. The ordeal at 15th Avenue had been exhausting, and he needed his sleep. All the same, he could not shake the slight, nagging feeling he had at the back of his mind when he thought about the flu outbreak.

Carson had made a sound point; there was barely anything on the news about it except for the occasional report saying 'X' number of people were taken in for treatment, or reports of vaccine testing and distribution, the whole package deal. Normally the media would be all over something like this new flu strain, but for whatever reason this time, they weren't. That was not normal, and Sergeant Wallace did not like 'not normal', not one bit.

Wallace ducked into his bathroom and quickly ran a toothbrush over his teeth and tongue, and then washed his face before returning to his bedroom and flopping down onto the bed, pulling the single blanket which he used in the summer up to his chest. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Conspiracy theory speculating could wait until tomorrow morning. For now, he needed sleep.


	3. Chapter 2: Code Orange

Chapter Two: Code Orange

The hot afternoon sun was beating down on the concrete and asphalt of the city's sidewalks and streets. It was the height of August, when the summer heat was at its climax in these parts of northwest Pennsylvania. The few trees in the city were in full bloom and birds populated the skies, in spite of the musky, unclean atmosphere that any self-respecting city possessed.

Jerome Wallace stepped out of the bus and onto the 29th Avenue sidewalk, joining in the throng of citizens making their way home from their respective jobs. It was nearly five in the afternoon; the ending time for a good amount of the other workers in the city, resulting in a quasi-chaotic rush hour as people took to the roads and streets to get back home.

Not so for Jerome Wallace. The tall, stocky, forty-eight year old African American police sergeant was on the third watch, which started at five o'clock. He moved against the river of people, walking down the sidewalk. Despite the rush hour, the walk to the 13th Precinct compound took less than ten minutes; the police station was not very far away.

Sergeant Wallace walked across the parking lot full of squadcars. The summer heat was ever present here as well, heat distortion actually visible around the police cars, emanating off of their roofs and doors. Gunfire could also be heard from the firing range, though the building's soundproofing made it sound like a rhythm of faint, dull popping noises, like muffled capguns.

Wallace headed into the station, passing by several officers from the second watch who were on their way out. He entered the lobby and clocked in, officially beginning his eight-hour shift.

The veteran sergeant headed upstairs and went into the locker rooms, which were already occupied by the other officers of the third watch who had just recently clocked in. Wallace opened his locker and took out his uniform, which was neatly folded, right where he had left it the night before. He quickly shucked his t-shirt and jeans, pulling on the familiar blue uniform of the city police. He set his hat on over his head and picked up his nine-millimeter P220 sidearm and nightstick, slipping both through his belt, along with his police-issue X26 Taser, pepper spray, and radio.

He left the locker room and steadily made his way downstairs. He was on the second patrol, which would go out during the second half of the third watch, so he had four hours of time at the station, unless a call for backup came through. In the meantime, he headed outside and across the parking lot to the firing range. He opened the door to the facility and stepped inside, making his way over to one of the firing stations. He placed his sidearm on the table in front of him and put on his goggles and earmuffs before pressing the button over to the side.

There was a faint mechanical whir as a man-sized and man-shaped target was lowered down at the opposite end of the firing range. Sergeant Wallace picked up his sidearm and took careful aim before opening fire, firing all ten rounds in the mag at the target. When he was done, he hit the button again. A buzzer sounded and the target was brought up closer to the firing station for better inspection. Wallace gave a nod, satisfied with the results. Every shot would have killed or fatally wounded a man who was attacking him.

Wallace spent another hour in the firing range, and then moved over to the gym, spending time in the weight room, playing a round of basketball against a handful of other officers, and running the mini-track. After that, he exercised with the punching bag for a little while until his sleeveless top was soaked through with sweat.

After a quick shower, Wallace put his uniform back on and left the gym. By then, the sun had all but set, surrendering the city to the embrace of night. He checked his watch. It read 8:56. Time for the second patrol.

Officers who were part of the second patrol were coming out of the firing range, the gym, and the station; all of them reporting to their vehicles. Officer Hank Welsh was already climbing into the passenger seat of Wallace's patrol car.

Sergeant Wallace opened the driver-side door and climbed into his squadcar, starting up the engine and pulling his seatbelt over himself, clicking it into its receptacle. "What's up, Hank," he nodded to his rookie partner.

"Nothing new, sir," Welsh replied.

"Don't call me sir," Wallace said as he put the car into gear and headed out onto the street, "Makes me feel like I'm sixty. Call me Wallace."

"Whatever you say, Sarge," Welsh chuckled.

Wallace took his usual patrol route through the district. The night was uneventful, to say the least. Normally there were at least five or six street fights going on in the southern districts which the 13th Precinct held sway in, but not tonight. There were less people on the streets as well, perhaps due to that so-called strain of the flu which had been afflicting the city for the past few days.

There were still one or two fights which Wallace personally broke up, sending the gung-ho teens away in shame. The night dragged on, continuing as usual until the car's radio finally squawked and a man's voice came through.

"All units, we have a possible 211 in the residential sector, at the 1500th block of Springs Street," the voice of the dispatch coordinator back at 13th Precinct HQ said over the radio, "Requesting two teams to investigate."

Sergeant Wallace checked the street signs as his car crossed another intersection. He was at the corner of 28th and Reckoning, which was close to the site which the dispatch had indicated. He reached for his radio and quickly responded. "This is Alpha-Sierra zero-seven-two; I am within range and proceeding to target site, over."

Another police sergeant reported in that he was also on his way. Wallace recognized the man's callsign and smiled with anticipation. Reggie Carson and his rook would be joining him and Welsh.

"What's a 211, again?" Officer Welsh scratched his head, not able to remember the code word.

The police codewords were a second nature to Sergeant Wallace because he had been on the force for over twenty years. For a rookie, it took a little while to know it by heart. "Code 211 means robbery," the veteran police sergeant explained, turning off Reckoning Street and heading through the residential sections towards Springs Street, "Difference between robbery and burglary—which is 459—is that robbery usually means armed, or violent in some way, while burglary is simple breaking and entering. Code 211s don't come in as often as 459s. Call came in a minute or two ago, so if we hurry we may catch the bastards red-handed."

Officer Welsh nodded, taking in this new information and mentally filing it away for possible later reference.

Wallace arrived at the target site two minutes later. He pulled his squadcar over to the side of the road and killed the engine. After a few seconds, a second patrol car rounded the corner and pulled to a stop behind Wallace's. Sergeant Reginald Carson stepped out, along with his rookie, Officer Oscar Riggs.

"Jerome!" Carson hollered over to Wallace, who was climbing out of his own car. "You good to go?"

"Uh-huh," Sergeant Wallace nodded, shutting his door. He and the other three policemen made their way across the front lawns towards the reported house. It was a townhouse, split into two living spaces. The one on the right was the target house.

Wallace stepped onto the front porch and walked up to the door, attempting to knock. When he put his hand to the door, it just swung inwards. Not only was it unlocked; it was already open. That, in of itself, sent red alarms off in Wallace's head.

Carson also looked uneasy.

The door swung open, clearing the way for the four policemen. The smell was the first thing Wallace noticed; an invisible wave of rot and the stench of blood billowed out from deeper in the house. Wallace gagged, actually staggering back a step.

"Riggs, get back to the car and call for backup," Carson ordered, "This shit just got turned into something else…"

Wallace sniffed the air again; making sure the stench was indeed what he thought it was. He nodded; he had smelled it many times before, but never as strong or powerful as it was now. Something was definitely dead inside.

Sergeant Wallace unholstered his P220 and edged into the house, weapon at the ready. Carson moved in next to him.

"Welsh, take our six," Wallace ordered his junior partner. Hank Welsh drew his sidearm as well and moved into the house behind the two senior officers. The smell only got worse as the three cops slowly made their way through the front hall and into the family room.

"Hello?!" Carson called out, "Anybody here?!"

There was no answer.

"Carson, check that room," Wallace gestured to a doorway to the living room over to the left, "I'll check the kitchen. Rook, stay here and-"

As Wallace spoke, there was an audible _thunk_ which shattered the silence in the house's interior. It had come from upstairs. All three officers instinctively aimed their guns towards the ceiling, frozen in place for a full five seconds.

Carson broke the freeze and silently walked around the sofa and poked his head into the living room. He stepped back and mouthed "_Room clear_" to Wallace, who was in the middle of checking the kitchen.

Wallace acknowledged and edged up to the corner of the doorway into the kitchen, his P220 raised and ready. After counting to three, he whipped around the corner and aimed the gun forward, checking the room. His mind was running close to the speed of light, almost instantaneously processing the fact that there was no one in the kitchen, but also picking up the scattered pots and pans, as well as the bloodstains on the floor.

"Room clear," Wallace reported, "Looks like signs of struggle, though…I'm beginning to think we may have a homicide on our hands…"

There was another _thunk_ from upstairs, as well as something else, a very faint noise which the officers could not discern.

"Someone's definitely up there," Officer Welsh observed.

"Back to the entrance," Carson ordered. The veteran led the way back to the front hall, which was where the stairs to the second floor were located.

"Who's up there?!" Wallace called out again, raising his voice even more, "Whoever is upstairs, come down slowly!"

Again, there was no answer, only another _thunk_ and that same other noise.

"Move up," Wallace ordered. He led the way up the stairs. At the top was a simple hallway. To the immediate left was an open bedroom, which was empty. On the wall on the stairs' side was only a sliding-door linen closet. On the opposite wall were two doors—one to another open bedroom, the other one presumably to the bathroom. The last doorway was no longer a doorway; the door had been bashed in. Bloody handprints stained the frame and the remains of the door on the ground.

The faint noise was much more apparent now; it was a slurping noise, interspersed with hissing breaths. Wallace had been through a lot on the streets of the city for the past twenty years, but that noise unnerved him more than anything ever had before. It was coming from that master bedroom at the end of the hallway.

Using silent hand signals, he had Carson secure the side bedroom and Welsh the bathroom. They reported both rooms clear.

"Jerome, I'll take point if you want," Carson offered, gesturing to the broken down master bedroom door at the end of the hall.

"No," Wallace shook his head, "No, I've got it. Take my six, back me up if I holler."

The black sergeant edged down the wall, getting closer and closer to the doorway. The slurping noise also grew louder and clearer. It almost sounded like mouthy, wet chewing, but Wallace dismissed those thoughts; right now, they were irrelevant.

Wallace reached the end of the hallway and positioned himself at the edge of the doorframe, tensing as he got ready to secure the room. His grip on his P220 tightened. He put his thumb on the safety and pushed, flicking it off. His weapon was now ready to fire.

He put a fist in the air and held up three fingers, making eye contact with his comrades. They both nodded, understanding. Wallace dropped one finger, then a second. When he put the third down, he stepped to the side and whipped through the doorway, bringing his sidearm up.

He took in the dresser and the walk-in closet to the right, the bureau and mirror to the left, the queen-sized bed which took up the middle of the room, and the nightstands on both sides, one of them bearing an alarm clock. There was a ceiling fan along attached with a light up above, but other than that the ceiling was bare.

Wallace turned his attention to the floor and nearly threw up on the spot.

The woman had been dead for a while; that much was evident. Her stomach and chest cavity had been torn open, exposing her cracked-open ribcage and her inner anatomy. Blood and viscera were strewn all over the floor and walls, making the space between the left side of the bed and the wall a sickening, horrendous sea of bodily fluids and essence.

The source of the chewing, slurping noise was also all too evident. Kneeling over the woman's corpse was a man. His skin was deathly pale and covered with blood. He was not wearing a shirt and his sweatpants were all but torn to shreds. Bruises and cuts were all over his body, evidence of the woman's struggle against him, but it was clear who the victor of the fight had been. The man was bent over the woman's laid-open torso, immersed in her insides.

He was _eating_ her, Wallace realized. The man's head snapped up suddenly, gazing at Wallace. His eyes were animalistic, severely bloodshot and reddened beyond recognition, full of a primal hostility. His mouth opened and bits of flesh and parts of what appeared to be intestines fell out. The man had pieces of flesh and gore stuck between his teeth, but he seemed not to notice. From his throat came a deep-throated moan, which intensified into a savage snarl. He began to stand up.

Wallace kept his dinner down in his stomach--where it belonged, but currently did not want to be--and aimed his weapon at the disheveled, bloodied man. "Get back down on your knees and put your hands where I can see 'em, scumbag!" the sergeant barked.

The man ignored the police sergeant's order, standing up to his full height of six or so feet. Blood still dribbled down his chin. The man gave another snarl and took a shuffling step forward, stepping over the woman's corpse.

Wallace was aware of his comrades behind him, waiting for his request for help if he needed them, but he did not look back. He cocked his P220 and aimed it at the man's head. "I said _on your knees_, motherfucker! Get down!"

The shout seemed to strike a chord with the man. The man growled and sprang forward, sprinting as fast as he could across the room, his arms outstretched and his teeth gnashing. His intent was clear; he obviously wanted Sergeant Wallace for dessert.

"_Stop!_" Wallace screamed at the man, but it only took him a microsecond to come to the conclusion that the man was not going to listen. He squeezed the trigger.

The P220 gave off a loud report as it fired, sending a hollow-tipped nine-millimeter bullet into the man's skull. A perfect, smoking hole appeared right between the man's eyes, and the man fell to the ground, dead.

Carson burst into the room at the sound of gunfire, his own weapon raised, Hank Welsh hot on his heels. Both of them stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of the woman's mutilated corpse.

Welsh's face went green and he turned, staggering out of the room. Wallace could hear the rookie retching out whatever he had for dinner all over the linoleum out in the hallway.

"Mother of God…" Sergeant Carson whispered upon seeing the half-eaten corpse, murmuring a prayer and crossing himself. His eyes moved over to the man, who was lying dead at Wallace's feet. "What kind of sick fuck…" the sergeant's voice trailed off.

"I…" Wallace was at a loss for words, "He was…it was as if…he didn't seem _human_, he seemed like…oh God…" Wallace staggered out of the room, stepping over Welsh's puke and hurrying down the steps and out of the house. He knelt down on the grass of the small front lawn, getting down on all fours, taking deep breaths.

"What is it?!" Officer Riggs exclaimed, hurrying over to the sergeant.

Wallace did not answer. He got back to his knees and pulled himself up to his feet. Sirens filled the air as a full team of crime scene specialists arrived along with reinforcements from the 13th Precinct.

The next few hours were a blur. State police arrived and took control of the situation. Yellow tape and traffic cones were set up, cordoning off the entire area. Specialists were escorted upstairs to the master bedroom where Wallace had found the corpse and the man eating it.

The man and woman had been identified as Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez, the couple who had lived in that townhouse for eight years. Homicide detectives also showed up and debriefed Wallace, Carson, Riggs, and Welsh, learning every scrap of information on how the scene had been when the four city cops had entered the home.

After several hours of debriefing, Wallace was told to rest up and was sent home. He did not get much sleep that night, still in a state of quasi-shock at the vivid imagery of that woman dead on the ground and the man bent over her, eating her hollow.

* * *

Morning came and went. Wallace ate his lunch in silence and spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, watching the TV. He had been given several days' leave from work by his captain, so he had nothing to do except sit and watch the news. As the rest of the week went by, sirens blared past Wallace's apartment more and more often. Ambulances and police sirens alike. Something was happening.

The news had more reports of people coming down with that flu. It also had reports from CEDA instructing people to stock up on supplies and telling them how to build their own safehouses.

Wallace frowned, trying to see the logic in that. What did the people need safehouses for? "_For your own safety,_" CEDA officials had said, but that did not answer anything.

The whole thing did not settle well with the sergeant. Something was amiss, he could sense it. From what he could piece together, it was becoming apparent that this new strain of flu was much more than a normal disease, though the sergeant did not know what that entailed. People were beginning to call this mysterious sickness the 'Green Flu', even though it was starting to seem less and less like a flu. The people afflicted with it were taken into hospitals, but Wallace noted that they were never actually shown. All that was shown were the exteriors of hospitals, not what was going on inside.

The news over the next few days showed footage of the hospitals in the city being barricaded and surrounded by what appeared to be national guardsmen.

Another shot showed an interesting sight. Tanks, humvees, transports, troops still clad in desert fatigues. Those were Army units. Not national guard, not CEDA, not government agencies; they were legitimate United States _Army_ units. This story correlated with reports of US armed forces being recalled from the Middle East to deal with 'rising crises' all across the east coast.

Many more reports and warnings came over the network. Citizens were advised—no, _ordered_—to avoid contact with any and all people who were infected with the 'green flu', and were also told to report any symptoms of the disease to the proper authorities.

Jerome Wallace did not move or say anything as he watched the army units march down the streets of his city, setting up checkpoints and barricades.

Gradually, more and more channels dissolved into static until one day the TV simply did not work. Wallace banged the top of the set, flipping through the channels, but there was nothing except static, or the mosaic of different colored bars with the words _NO SIGNAL_ pasted across the bottom. Either something was wrong with the television signals, or they were no longer being sent.

Five days after the ordeal on Springs Street, Sergeant Wallace's phone rang, shattering the quiet, undisturbed, reserved atmosphere within the sergeant's apartment. The sergeant picked it up. "Hello?"

"Jerome, this is Hadley," the voice of the 13th Precinct captain came through the line, "The city is going to Hell; I need you down at the station immediately."

"On my way, sir," Wallace hung up. He stepped into the kitchen and took a swig of water from the sink. Turning around, he picked up his shoes and slid them onto his feet. Ready to go, Wallace unlocked and opened his front door, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

The late-afternoon sky was red. A smoky haze lay over the city and Wallace could smell distant fires burning. The wail of sirens was omnipresent, seeming like they were coming from everywhere at once.

Wallace set off down his street at a fast pace. On his way towards the police station, he passed many ambulances speeding down the road, as well as the burned husks of crashed cars, and then what seemed to be miles of abandoned vehicles in a nightmarish jam-up. People were hurrying down the sidewalk, all of them moving south, but the streets were empty of all moving or functioning vehicles.

An explosion ripped through the sky, followed by the faint rumbling noise of what sounded like a building collapsing.

Wallace paused to try to figure out where the sound had come from, but quickly gave up. He walked into the 13th Precinct station fifteen minutes later, having successfully navigated his way through the back alleys and shortcuts which he knew from his childhood.

He reported straight to the locker rooms and quickly got changed into his sergeant's uniform. He was aware of the fact that many more officers were present at the station getting prepped, men and women from all three shifts.

After several minutes, the captain's voice came over the station-wide PA system. "All officers are to report immediately to the armory; we have an alleged Code Orange near General Hospital; national guardsmen are requesting our assistance. Everyone suit up and then report to the trucks for deployment."

That made everyone in the station rush to the stairs as if the devil himself were at their heels. Code Orange was the local code for large-scale riots. Wallace had responded to only two Code Oranges in his long career.

Wallace spotted Carson as he was walking across the parking lot towards the armory. "Reg!" the black sergeant called out to his old friend, "They recalled you, too?"

"Mm-hmm," Carson nodded, falling in step with his friend, "Kind of glad; gets my mind off of…well, you know."

"I hear you," Wallace nodded agreeably, "I still see it when I sleep… Have you been watching the news?"

"Yeah," Carson replied, "I have no idea what the hell's going on, but something bad is happening down south, something real bad. Communications with Fairfield, Newburg, Pittsburgh, Philly; everything has been lost. TVs are down, along with all radio broadcasting which isn't local. Do _you_ know what the hell is causing all this?"

Wallace shrugged as he walked into the armory, holding the door for Carson. "Not a clue…well, scratch that; whatever it is, it has something to do with that sickness that's been taking people under the radar…the 'Green Flu' everyone's been calling it now. Something doesn't seem right about it. I mean, with the Swine Flu scare this past year, we all could still rest easy because it was no more dangerous than most other common diseases and was blown way out of proportion, but this new 'Green Flu'…I don't know, man, but something about it has me scared shitless."

Carson and Wallace reported first to the room with the riot gear; body armor, riot helmets with reinforced visors which covered the entire front of the head and face, and full plexiglass riot shields. Wallace pulled the bulletproof body armor on over his uniform, securing the arm and leg padding, and then the knee pads and neck protectors. He pulled on a pair of black gloves and selected a riot helmet from the rack, placing it on his head. For now, the full visor was unneeded, so he flipped it up. He then picked up a riot shield from the next rack down, strapping it to his left arm.

Carson finished gearing up at the same time as Wallace, and the pair of veteran sergeants joined the line of officers shuffling past the weapons room, where the armsmaster was handing out Mossberg-590 tactical shotguns and belts of shells, which the officers strapped to their backs. In Code Orange riots, the shotguns were there as an absolute last resort against anything that might threaten an officer's life or the lives of his or her comrades.

Wallace slung his shotgun over his shoulder and walked with Carson and a good many of the other officers out into the parking lot. The garage had opened and several armored transports had rolled out; large, black, almost cube-shaped vehicles, waiting to take the cops to the riot at General Hospital.

The last of the officers of the 13th Precinct emerged from the armory, fully prepped and armored, ready for the Code Orange. Wallace spotted Hank Welsh amongst the stragglers and gave him a nod, wishing him luck.

Carson and Wallace were both directed into the bay of one of the transports, along with ten or eleven other officers. They were given their orders; respond to the Code Orange at General Hospital, try to keep the peace, use deadly force 'if necessary', avoid all physical contact with infected individuals.

That last bit struck Wallace as odd. Why should they be worrying about infected people when they were apparently quarantined in the hospitals? Nothing added up.

Wallace had an uneasy feeling that he would find his answers at General Hospital. What set him on edge was the fact that he knew that when he found his answers, he would _not_ like them.


	4. Chapter 3: Goodbye, World

Chapter Three: Goodbye, World

The interior of the APC was illuminated only by a dull red light set into the ceiling. The glow obliterated all color, washing everything out in shades of red or black.

Sergeant Jerome Wallace stood in the very back of the troop bay, nearest to the rear doors. The hum of the APC's engines could be heard as it sped through the city streets towards General Hospital.

The APC rocked as it sped over a speed bump. A slot was opened in the front of the troop bay, revealing a small portion of the driver's space. "We're coming up on General Hospital, ETA: two minutes! If you have any last-minute things to do before we get there, do 'em now!" the officer in the passenger seat shouted back into the troop bay. When he was finished, he sealed the opening, leaving the officers in the rear to their own devices.

Sergeant Wallace was next to his old friend Sergeant Reginald Carson. Both of the veterans exchanged quiet nods with each other, tightening their grips on their riot shields, adjusting the straps which secured them to their arms.

The two minutes dragged on, seeming more like ten or fifteen minutes rather than one hundred and twenty seconds. The dozen men and women in the troop bay stood in silence, tapping their feet in impatience or just staring at the wall.

"Stick together, people," Sergeant Wallace cautioned the others, many for whom this was their first riot, "Crowd'll tear you apart if you get isolated. Always keep your shotgun where you can get at it in a hurry."

No matter how long or how short those two minutes seemed, one way or another they _did_ pass. The pitch of the engine changed, becoming lower as the APC decelerated. Sergeant Wallace laid his hand on the door release, ready for when the signal came.

The engine flattened out and the APC rocked slightly as it came to a definite halt. Two knocks came from the driver's cavity up front, signaling that they were ready for deployment. Shouting and screaming—muffled by the APC's armor—were audible all around, and a dull pattering of thumps were heard as rioters appeared to hurl objects against the sides of the transport.

One of the officers replied to the driver's signal with two knocks of his own.

"That's our cue," Carson nodded to Wallace, "Good luck out there, everyone."

Wallace pulled the release and the doors swung open. Wallace pushed them aside and leaped out onto the cracked, torn asphalt of 17th Avenue, the main road which ran right in front of General Hospital.

A sea of people were running this way and that, pounding across the asphalt and concrete. The fences which surrounded General Hospital had all been torn down. They lay in shards all over the road and grounds of the hospital. Fires were burning all over the place, caused by what seemed to be improvised firebombs. Smoke choked the air, clouding long-range vision with a hazy smog.

Wallace took several steps away from the APC, his riot shield at the ready. At once, he knew his taser was all but useless—there were way too many rioters around for it to be effective in any way. Same with the pepper spray. They were useful against delinquents on the streets during small fights, but against large-scale riots…

Wallace reached down to his belt and drew out his nightstick. It was not lethal, but it would discourage anyone who tried to hurt him from attempting a second time. He then pulled his visor down over his face, providing near-complete protection for his oh-so-charming nearly fifty-year-old features.

Carson stood up next to Wallace, flanked by the other dozen officers from the APC. Many more APCs pulled up from behind and opened their doors, allowing dozens more officers to pour out onto the street. Orders were barked and the men and women in uniform formed up into a line formation, locking their shields into an impenetrable wall of tempered plexiglass.

As one, the police began to edge forward into the crowd of rioters. They encountered many beleaguered national guardsmen as they went. From the corners of Wallace's vision, the veteran officer could spot army vehicles and personnel pulling up with the national guardsmen, reinforcing the side of the crowd opposite the police. The police and the soldiers began to edge between the rioters and the hospital, trying to lever the crowd out into the streets where they could be more easily dispersed with tear gas and dogs.

General Hospital itself looked like it had been through hell. Fires could be seen burning in many of its windows, smoke billowing out of many more. Something bad had definitely happened in there, but Wallace did not waste time wondering what. Knowing the reason would not help disperse this riot any faster.

Everyone's radios were squawking the whole time as the soldiers and officers communicated with each other, giving sit-reps and status updates to their superiors.

Rioters seemed to notice the wall of police for the first time, and they reacted in kind. Large rocks, pieces of concrete, and many other projectiles bounced off of Wallace's riot shield. From the middle of the crowd a Molotov cocktail came sailing, breaking over another officer's riot shield. The woman cast the shield away, dropping to the asphalt and rolling to smother the flames.

Tear gas canisters went off in the crowd, sending many people collapsing to the asphalt on all fours, trying to clear the burning compound out of their eyes, noses, and mouths.

The wall of police met with the crowd proper and—pretty much with brute force—began to shove them away from the approach to the hospital, which soldiers were beginning to occupy. Shots were fired, the sharp reports of a glock handgun cracking through the air. Someone in the crowd was armed.

The police and soldiers tried for no less than ten minutes to pacify the crowd—without success—until everything went horribly wrong.

An older voice—belonging to a military officer—came over the net, issuing orders in a frantic voice out of every radio in the area. "Code Red, Code Red; we have a level-one breach!" the warning was, "The hospital quarantine has been broken; I repeat, the hospital quarantine has been broken! Do not allow any infected individuals to make physical contact with you or escape out into the city. Deadly force is authorized and ordered! I repeat; _shoot to kill!_"

"_What the hell?!_" an officer exclaimed.

"Did he say shoot to _kill?!_" another interjected, his voice cracking with confusion and borderline hysteria.

As Wallace turned his gaze over to the hospital, he was able to see the doors on this side of the building burst open. From them came a seething mass of people in hospital gowns, as well as men and women in doctor's coats and nurses' garb. These were patients and hospital staff. All of them were deathly pale, many without hair. They all had severely bloodshot eyes, as well as blood and a viscous green fluid dribbling out of their mouths and down their chins.

All of them were sprinting. They ran awkwardly, as if their muscles and bones were not connected properly, twitching like their nervous systems were going haywire. All of them were roaring, growling, hissing, moaning…none were making noises normal humans made.

Wallace's blood ran cold as he beheld the mob of people bursting forth from the hospital. The man in the townhouse five days ago; he had behaved the exact same way—the awkward running, the animalistic behavior, the green pus; _everything_. Suddenly, as if a light had gone off over his head, Wallace understood.

These people were infected with the so-called and aptly-named 'Green Flu'. Suddenly, he knew that he and everyone else had been lied to; the Green Flu was no flu; no common disease could transform people into these raging monsters. He understood why army units and national guardsmen had been setting up perimeters; not to keep any dangers and germs outside, but to keep the infected people _inside_. Doctors, patients, nurses; everyone in the hospital had been somehow infected. The army had tried to keep them cooped up inside until appropriate measures could be taken to deal with them, but then the riot had showed up and the hospital must have been breached in the chaos.

Now…now all the hell within the hospital was running towards the soldiers and police at full sprint.

The soldiers had already opened fire. The unending rapid reports of M4s and M16A2 assault rifles filled the air as soldiers took aim at the people sprinting out of the hospital and opened fire. The loud clatter of a heavy vehicle-mounted MG also opened up. Dozens of infected people fell, bullet holes riddling their bodies. Many more were hit by the hail of lead, but shucked off the shots and kept right on running, some without arms or large chunks of their torsos. Others lost legs and fell to the ground, but they kept right on dragging themselves forward with their arms.

"Jesus H. Christ!" an officer further on down the line screamed, "They're fucking _killing_ them!"

"I didn't sign up for this shit!" another officer—Wallace thought it was Hank Welsh—exclaimed.

Many more infected people were killed; helpless in front of the soldiers' guns, but the mob of infected was too great. Infected people reached the crowd of rioters and tore into them with a vengeance and bloodlust which only animals could possibly possess. Screaming rioters were caught in between infected and torn to shreds. Infected people ripped, tore, and bit their way through the rioters.

Before Wallace's unbelieving eyes, many of the injured rioters began to vomit green pus after several minutes. They got to their feet, vomiting green pus and blood, rasping moans rising from their throats. They then whipped around and attacked their fellow rioters, biting into necks, arms, legs—whatever was nearest.

These people were…Wallace couldn't even describe what was happening. Those infected people were definitely, absolutely _not_ human beings any longer. They were like animals, but at the same time faster and more intelligent. More dangerous.

And they were multiplying.

The rioters ran whichever way they could, and as they fled the infected people had a clear run, straight at the soldiers and the police.

Several officers broke formation, running away for all they were worth. The rest held their ground, unsure of what to do.

"What the fuck are we supposed to do?!" Officer Riggs shouted, "_Shoot_ them?!"

No one had a chance to reply; before anyone else knew it, the infected were upon them.

Wallace didn't even have time to grab his nine-millimeter or the shotgun strapped to his back before what seemed to be the whole mass of infected slammed into his riot shield. Many other officers were thrown back by the force of the impact, but Wallace stood his ground. In his peripheral vision, he could still see Reggie Carson holding out next to him.

For a moment, Wallace understood how those Spartans had probably felt at Thermopylae when their wall of shields was charged by the Persian army. He had watched the one scene from _300_ when the Spartans were gradually driven further and further back under the sheer force of thousands of bodies being pressed against them. Then the first infected man reached him and the thought was dashed from his mind. The Spartans had not broken under that first charge. The police officers of the 13th Precinct did.

A particularly tall and muscled man in patient's garb slammed into Wallace's riot shield, scrabbling furiously at the plexiglass, staining it with green and red bodily fluids. Wallace struck the man full in the face with the shield, forcing him back. He then raised his nightstick and brought it crushing down on top of the man's skull. Instead of simply knocking the man unconscious as it should have, the blow actually shattered the top of the skull, exposing and destroying the brain matter underneath.

Wallace was startled and sickened by the sudden discharge, staggering back a step. Two more infected men, sensing the blood, looked up from the corpse of the rioter whom they had been devouring and charged Wallace. The older sergeant smacked the first aside with his riot shield and delivered a powerful kick to the chest of the second, followed up with an uppercut with the nightstick.

The first Infected recovered and whipped around, baring his teeth and lunging at Wallace a second time. Wallace raised his nightstick and prepared to strike, but the Infected's head exploded in a shower of red before it took two steps.

Reggie Carson, the end of his shotgun still smoking, racked the pump, sliding another shell up into the chamber. "I got your back!"

"Much obliged!" Wallace replied in thanks. He quickly finished off the second infected man, the one who he had clubbed in the chin. The man's jaw had shattered and fallen away, but he was still up and moving as if nothing had happened. Wallace crushed his skull, just like the first man.

A group of five infected men and women in hospital gowns took note of the dark-skinned cop beating the life out of their fellow Infected. Whatever reason remained in their dead minds registered Wallace as a significant threat compared to the rioters and the other officers—all of whom were being taken down faster than wheat during the harvest.

All five of them sprinted for the officer, who turned to face them. Two of them fell, downed by a shot from Carson's shotgun, but the remaining three reached Wallace. Wallace met the first with his riot shield, shoving it back. The second grabbed Wallace's shoulder, ripping at the body armor. It pulled itself in close, baring its teeth, and bit into Wallace's neck. Or rather, it tried to; the veteran sergeant's neck protector prevented the Infected's teeth from penetrating. Wallace tried to shuck the Infected, but the man did not budge, pinning the arm wielding the nightstick to his side. The third Infected ran straight into his front, taking him down and pinning him by the shoulders. It vomited blood and green fluid onto Wallace's helmet visor, obscuring his vision. He shook his head and tried to clear as much of the revolting substance off as possible, but it was a hard task to accomplish while pinned on his back. He arched his back and managed to knee the Infected on top of him in the groin, heaving it off.

The Infected grabbing his shoulder had managed to rip his neck protector off with its teeth, casting the piece of body armor aside. It lunged for Wallace's now-exposed neck, but the sergeant flipped onto his side and head-butted the Infected, momentarily dazing the man. Wallace raised his nightstick and held the man at bay be holding his throat between the bottom of the nightstick and the side-handle. The Infected rasped and growled, trying to get at the sergeant, but the cross-hold prevented it from moving.

As he held the second Infected at bay with the nightstick, Wallace reached down to his belt and drew his P220, flicking off the safety and cocking it. The first Infected, who Wallace had shoved away with his riot shield, was running back forward to finish off the downed sergeant. Wallace fired once, striking the Infected in the chest. The man faltered, staggering back from the force of the bullet, but he quickly recovered and took several more steps forward, reaching out for Wallace.

The black sergeant fired four more shots into the infected man's torso. Blood spurted from the wounds and from the man's mouth as it filled his lungs. The Infected fell over backwards, dead.

Whatever had happened to the Infected, it was as if they were no longer able to feel pain—even if they did, they were not conscious of it. They could shrug off hits which would down normal humans. Headshots seemed to take them down instantly, but shots to the body were not as effective. Though the Infected were still by no means impervious to body shots; it just took more of them to take one down.

Wallace filed that information away; something told him that that knowledge would come in real handy in the future. He put his pistol to the forehead of the Infected he was holding off with his nightstick and pulled the trigger, closing his eyes as the blood spattered across his visor. He got back to his feet and used up the rest of the bullets in his current magazine, ejecting the empty clip but not reloading—there was no time. The sergeant holstered his sidearm and picked up his nightstick, holding it instead by the side handle like the Asian _tonfa_ weapon after which it was modeled, providing a stainless steel splint for his forearm, with which he could strike out at any approaching Infected without fear of injury to his arm. Basically, holding it in that manner was akin to how knuckledusters worked for the fist knuckles, only it protected and lethalized the forearm as a whole rather than the hand.

Wallace moved forward and struck the first Infected to charge him with his forearm, knocking it back. He twirled the midnight-black, stainless steel police baton around by the side handle and held it properly, bringing it arcing down onto the felled Infected's skull. Wallace ignored the sickening crunch and wiped the discharge off of his visor, clearing up his visibility.

More and more Infected took notice of Sergeant Wallace and Sergeant Carson, loping towards them, determined to bring them down no matter how many of their pals died in the process.

Wallace's arms began to tire as he beat away Infected after Infected with his riot shield and nightstick. It had been at least five minutes since the hospital had been breached, and more Infected kept right on streaming out. Over the radio came reports of similar breaches from the many other hospitals in the city. He could also faintly hear someone—presumably a soldier in another part of the city—shouting 'Broken Arrow, Broken Arrow!', which was very, _very_ bad news. Wallace paid little attention; not that it was not worth taking note of—he simply could not spare any measure of concentration to acknowledge what was being said. Doing so would be a distraction, and a distraction would be the death of him.

After a little while, Wallace became aware that the soldiers had retreated, leaving their dead and their vehicles which did not make it out fast enough. The rioters had all gone. The ones who weren't dead were either throwing up green and growling or screaming as they were eaten by the Infected from the hospital.

Wallace was fighting back-to-back with Carson, but as he looked around during a brief moment of respite he saw that they were the only ones left standing. Everywhere he looked, officers were down on the ground, their torsos torn open and their guts hanging out, Infected crouched over them, satisfying themselves on the 13th Precinct officers' insides. Anyone else was absent, having either completely lost it or dropped everything and ran away.

Both sergeants became aware of bands of Infected sprinting down the streets towards them from other directions, no doubt lured by the sound of the previous gunfight. Weaponsfire could still be heard from the retreating army personnel further on down the street, but other than that the two sergeants were suddenly very much alone.

"We have to get out of here!" Carson shouted, "This is crazy!" The other sergeant had lost his helmet and been scratched several times, bearing three long streaks of red on his left cheek. His neck protector was gone as well, and he was walking with a limp.

"Yeah, very good recommendation; never would've thought of that!" Wallace retorted impatiently, kicking an Infected who was lunging for his leg and cracking another across the side of the head, "Just explain to me how the fuck you plan on getting through all this shit we got around us which wants us for dinner?!"

"I'm open to suggestions! How about—_shit_-" Carson swore as an Infected leaped into his side just as he was firing his shotgun. The shell went wide, tearing through the glass of the window of a nearby abandoned car. All at once, the car's alarm went off, wailing loud enough to bring the dead back to life.

Almost like magic, the dozens of Infected charging at the two cops froze in place for a millisecond, registering the noise, before turning away and sprinting towards the source of the high-pitched beeping, ignoring the two cops like yesterday's crumbs.

While they crowded around the car, Wallace and Carson ran. They ran like they had never run in their lives before. After all, they had never been under the threat of being eaten alive before; being chased by inhuman, animalistic…_things_…tended to set new groundbreaking standards in the cardiovascular endurance department of the body.

All over the nearby streets, chaos reigned. Infected were breaking down doors and windows, forcing their way inside every building. Civilians were running all over the place, fleeing in no particular direction, just trying to get the hell away from the raving, bloodthirsty monsters trying to kill and eat them. Corpses littered the streets and the smell of blood and viscera was ever present. Wallace found himself wishing he had a bandanna to tie around his face.

The two veteran sergeants waded through the pandemonium. Both had sheathed their nightsticks and had their Mossbergs out, blasting shell after shell into any Infected that came too close.

As the two officers fought onwards, a loud, distant wail was heard, filling every space with its caterwauling. "Are those the civil defense sirens?!" Wallace exclaimed.

"Yeah!" Carson shouted back in reply, "Yeah, why?" the other sergeant paused, sensing what Wallace meant by that question as well as what it entailed, "You don't think that they would actually _do_ that, do you?!"

"If someone came up to me a month ago saying the hospitals had become a corralling pen for people infected with a disease which turned them into mindless, bloodthirsty animals, I'd have put him in a straitjacket myself! This really isn't all that surprising; what would _you_ do if infection like this was spreading through the city at an unstoppable rate?!"

"But blowing this place up won't solve anything; they've already spread too far to be taken out in one fell swoop!"

"Well the fuckers running the Air Force don't know that, now do they?!"

As if confirming Wallace's statement, the low, distant rushing noise which sounded disturbingly like fighter jets. Of course, the reason they sounded like fighter jets was that they turned out to be fighter jets; five of them, flying in a tight wedge formation, bearing down hard on the position of General Hospital.

"Inside!" Carson screamed, "Get the fuck inside!" The sergeant turned and sprinted at the nearest shop window he spotted, leaping into it shoulder-first, shattering it into a million fragments of glass. They crunched loudly under Wallace's boots as he trod over them and leaped into the window after his friend. The two sergeants made their way through the tables and chairs of the restaurant which they had broken into, and headed for the back rooms.

"Where's the goddamn fridge in this place?!" Wallace shouted, looking for the sealed, chilled room in which the restaurant was bound to keep their meats and other foods which needed cooling.

The fighters passed over high above, causing the pots and pans in the kitchens to tremble and shake. Carson and Wallace knew that Hell was coming. Wallace looked around wildly, searching for something, _anything_ which could protect them from the imminent airstrike.

The restaurant's structure and architecture was resilient and solid, and the joint was located far enough away from General Hospital to avoid being directly destroyed in the initial blast, so the two sergeants needed not worry about total collapse. What they needed to worry about was the aftereffects of the airstrike. Odds were the fighters would be dropping thermobaric ordinance, bombs which specialized in burning the living shit out of anything they touched. Perfect for containing infections in some cases, but not most. Certainly not now, when the infection had already spread far enough away from the hospital to avoid complete destruction.

Wallace had no doubt that many Infected would die in the airstrike, but 'many' was not 'all', and anything short of 'all' was not enough.

There was no shelter to be had, so Wallace and Carson threw themselves to the tiled floor, covered their heads, and prayed.

The world convulsed as the payload of those fighters slammed into the ground somewhere near General Hospital. A deep rumbling noise followed, accompanied by the ear-splitting sound of every piece of glass in a three-mile radius shattering. A gout of flame slammed into the kitchen doors and blew them open, swirling through the kitchens and washing over the two sergeants.

Sergeant Wallace felt a brief, burning pain down on his legs, but the feeling quickly vanished. The flames had lost their strength by the time they reached him, and his body armor and underlying clothing had protected his flesh from the searing heat of the remainder.

The flames from the firebombing did not force their way all the way into the shops and buildings they roared past, as the path of least resistance was the open road ahead of them. Only a tiny fraction of the larger walls of fire spilled into the restaurant which Wallace and Carson had ducked into. That was the only reason they were still alive.

Jerome Wallace staggered to his feet, steadying himself with the metal countertop right next to him. He grasped Carson by the shoulder and heaved his old friend up as well, dusting the powder and debris off of Carson's back

Wallace bent over and picked up his nightstick, which had slipped out of its sheath in the chaos of diving to the ground. The two sergeants shook their heads, clearing them up, and made their way into the wreckage of the dining area in the front. Most of the ceiling had collapsed, but the crossbeams remained intact. There were no upright chairs and tables; everything was thrown about and splintered.

"_Assholes!_" Carson shouted up to the sky, giving the fading fighter jets several rude gestures.

"Yeah, I bet they're _real_ broken up over that," Wallace chuckled. The laugh was mirthless and bitter, however. If any of the sergeants' comrades had survived the initial onslaught of Infected, they had probably been killed by the firebombing. Nothing on the streets could have survived that without getting turned into a lump of carbon.

"We should get moving…" Carson mumbled, pushing through the wreckage of the door and stepping out onto the street, "We won't be alone very much longer. All those Infected…city'll be swarming with them by tomorrow."

Wallace stumbled out of the remains of the restaurant, observing the ruin caused by the firebombing. Thousands of fires were burning all over this part of the city, all of them adding their own contributions to the smoggy atmosphere hanging over the cityscape. There were no windows left intact anywhere at all; cars, trucks, buildings, streetlights—all had been shattered. Many of the buildings had been knocked down by the pressure wave of the bombs' impact, sending debris and wreckage into the streets, burying long segments of the sidewalks.

Infected who had been inside at the time of the bombing came shuffling out into the daylight, aimlessly wandering about the ruined streets.

Wallace and Carson made their way down the streets, heading west for a mile or so. Gradually, the ruined buildings became less and less common as the two officers distanced themselves from the blast site.

Neither friend spoke to the other. Their minds were in a state of quasi-shock, and reasonably so. Wallace felt like he was in a nightmare and was simply waiting to wake up. Infected zombie-people attacking humanity in the streets all around him? It couldn't be happening. There was no way.

Despite the turmoil in his mind, Wallace kept right on moving, staying in step with his companion. Several times they brushed up with Infected who had been sheltered in some way from the firebombing. Both Wallace's and Carson's nightsticks tasted more blood as those Infected charged them. As the cops headed even farther away from the firebombing site, returning to the city proper, they began to run into civilians again, as well as Infected which hadn't been affected by the airstrike. The ones which weren't busy breaking into buildings and devouring people took notice if the two cops and were swift in attacking them, but they only came in pairs or trios at most, not like the endless horde of General Hospital.

Wallace and Carson dealt with them accordingly. Twice, an Infected nearly managed to sink its teeth into Wallace's neck, but neither succeeded.

The sun was beginning to set as night set in. "We can't do this in the dark," Carson sighed, brushing a few crumbs of concrete from his shoulder, "We need to find someplace to sack out for the n-"

The rifle shot hit Wallace dead-on right in the middle of the chest. He was thrown back a yard or two by the force of the bullet. Sergeant Carson was still talking as the sharp crack rang out and his friend collapsed. He swore out loud and crouched down low, bringing up his riot shield for full protection.

Wallace let out a mumbled curse and slowly sat up. He felt his chest—which was throbbing painfully—patting himself down. He pulled his hands away, but there was no blood on them. He could also breathe just fine. The sergeant nearly collapsed again—this time with relief. His body armor had held.

"_Hold your fire!!_" Sergeant Carson shouted at the top of his lungs, "Damn it all, we're not Infected!"

An entrance to a local grocery store was pushed open as people moved aside the barricades blocking it from within. A short, gray-haired, hawk-like man dressed in a yellow sweater poked his head and shoulders out, squinting to get a better look at the two cops. Upon seeing that they were definitely not Infected, the man gestured for them to come.

"Those monsters are all over the city!" the old man exclaimed, "They left these parts a little bit ago, but they'll be back soon; hurry the hell up and get in here!"

Wallace got to his feet, assisted by Carson, and got moving, ignoring the pain in his chest. "If you're gonna kill me, do it right next time!" the sergeant grumbled. He had just come through one of the most harrowing experiences of his life without dying, only to get shot by some two-bit nobody who fancied himself a SEAL sniper. No, Wallace was not in the best of moods right now.

"I'm not the one who shot you; take it up with Kevin if you want," the gray-haired man retorted as the two cops stumbled inside the grocery store. "Can't really blame the man; almost everything out there that moves has been one o' _them_. We're past the point of pausing to make sure what we're shooting ain't dead."

"Don't I know it," Wallace murmured.

All power had gone out after the military airstrike, which Wallace and Carson later learned had hit many more parts of the city than just General Hospital. Hundreds were dead, and they were the lucky ones. At any moment in time, more and more Infected were being created as the men and women-turned-creatures in the clutches of the virus attacked uninfected civilians all over the city. It was mayhem outside.

There were roughly thirty others in the grocery store already, all of them huddled on the floor, or leaning against the counters. Their faces were empty and exhausted, all of them not quite believing that the Hell emerging around them was real.

Somewhere in the back a young girl cried. She went on for a few seconds before several other survivors crowded over to her and calmed her down. Her parents were not in the store.

Everyone looked as it they had lost someone close to them.

Wallace and Carson both retreated to a secluded corner, dropped their riot shields, laid down, and slept like there was no tomorrow, both of them hoping against hope that they would wake up in their beds past their clock-in time and realize that it was all just a bad dream.

If only.


	5. Chapter 4: Out of the Frying Pan

Chapter Four: Out of the Frying Pan…

_ August 15, 2010_

_ I do not know why I'm writing this. If I end up dying, I don't think anyone will ever find it. I'll either be throwing up green and attacking other people, or I'll be plain-old dead. Just one more corpse in the sea of dead bodies blanketing this city. Well, scratch that; I'll be a corpse either way. The question is: will I be a dead corpse, or a living one? Maybe I'm writing this to keep myself sane. Maybe I'm doing it so that, when I survive all this, the world can see the Hell I had to go through to make it out. Maybe I'll make money off of it one day. Others are writing stuff of their own…I guess it just helps pass the time. Yes, that's the best reason I can think of; passing time. We all have too much of it now. Reggie Carson and I have holed up in a grocery store for the past day with a few other survivors. There are twenty-seven of them—I counted them myself. We thought we could wait the whole thing out…

* * *

_

"Hey, Jerome, why don't you put that thing down and give me a hand here?"

Sergeant Jerome Wallace looked up from the thick notepad which he was scrawling into to see his old friend, Sergeant Reginald Carson, standing over him. "What is it this time?" Wallace asked, stowing his notepad and getting to his feet.

"Heading upstairs to set up buckets to catch rainwater," Carson explained, heading towards the back of the foodstore, stepping over sleeping survivors, "No idea how long we'll be stuck in here; might as well consider all options." Carson squinted at the notepad which Wallace was slipping under his body armor, cocking an eyebrow. "You writing your memoirs or something?"

Wallace shrugged. "Passes the time," the sergeant said.

Carson led the way into the backrooms of the foodstore, where a dozen or so large buckets were arrayed at the bottom of the roof access ladder in the back corner. Carson grabbed hold of the steel rungs and hauled himself up, climbing up to the roof and unlatching the sealed hatch, pushing it open. Moonlight streamed through, faintly illuminating a square patch of floor.

One of the other survivors in the foodstore entered the backroom just as Wallace was setting about passing the buckets up the ladder to Carson. "Here, I'll give you a hand," the survivor offered.

Wallace turned and got a good look at the man, recognizing him from earlier. He was a taller, well-built man. He looked like one of those older Native Americans you'd see in textbooks or movies. He had shoulder-length gray hair, his skin was a rich tan, his face laden with laughter lines, and his eyes were a deep blue and somewhat almond-shaped.

Wallace shrugged again. "Sure, if you really want to. What's your name?"

The Native American shrugged, picking up three of the buckets and handing them up to Wallace. "You can call me whatever you want. Way I see it is that most of us probably won't be alive very much longer. I'd rather not get too personal."

Wallace shrugged, passing up the buckets to Carson, who was on the roof, "Well, Chief, whatever floats your boat."

After all of the buckets had been passed up to Carson, Wallace and the other man joined the veteran police sergeant up on the roof, having a sudden desire for fresh air.

On the roof of the foodstore was a large 'HELP' sign, scrawled in white spray paint, along with the buckets, which Carson had arrayed in orderly rows and columns. The sky was mostly clear with a few stray clouds hovering here and there. Half of the moon was also visible in the starry night sky, the other half obscured by the Earth's shadow. The resulting moonlight was not overly bright, but it was enough to illuminate most of the night. Streetlights and indoor lighting systems all over the city still had power, but the moonlight lit up everything else.

It was a cooler, crisper night, probably somewhere in the low '70s. A slight breeze was blowing through, just enough to keep the air from becoming humid and stagnant.

Wallace walked up to the edge of the roof and took a deep breath, breathing in through his nostrils and out of his mouth. "Mm…" the black sergeant hummed, giving a slight, satisfied nod, "Nothing like a good breath o' fresh air to clear your head."

The Native American—Wallace mentally decided to just call him 'Chief'—nodded in agreement. "It does a man little good to spend his life indoors."

"Any idea just how long we're supposed to stay cooped up in this place?" Carson grumbled, taking a seat on one of the roof vents, stretching his arms and easing out a crick in his neck. "I don't think I'll last very long."

Wallace's only response was a low chuckle. "Well, Reg, that's, uh…that's pretty damn unfortunate for you."

As Wallace was speaking, a loud, raspy groan was heard from the street below. A dull banging, scraping noise followed, growing louder and closer with every passing moment.

The source of the commotion became apparent when two diseased, pale hands appeared, clasping the lip of the building's edge. The rest of the body came next as the Infected heaved itself onto the roof. The disheveled, torn-up man paused for a second, sniffing the air and scanning the roof in front of it with its dull, cloudy eyes before it growled and launched itself at Wallace, who was nearest.

Wallace quickly unsheathed his nightstick—which he had luckily kept strapped to his belt—and gave the Infected a good whack across its jaw, sending blood and bits of flesh and bone flying. The man staggered back, trying to regain his balance, but Wallace crushed the Infected's skull with another, more carefully aimed blow. "These fuckers can _climb_, now?" Wallace murmured to himself as he straightened up, turning away from his most recent kill.

"Aw, hell!" Carson exclaimed, leaping to his feet as a glob of blood from Wallace's coup-de-grâce splashed over his face, hurriedly wiping it off, "You had to get that shit all over me, you just _had_ to."

"Pardon me; the next time a diseased maniac tries to have me for a midnight snack, I'll check which way I knock his sorry head off," Wallace rolled his eyes up to the heavens, "Jesus, you had worse shit thrown on you during our academy days; I don't know what you're complaining about."

"Not to interrupt, but it sounds like our mutual acquaintance here has brought friends," Chief observed, gesturing down to the street, where over a dozen more Infected were staggering around the next corner.

"They must hear each others' moans," Carson guessed, hopping off of the vent and getting to his feet. "I think we've overstayed our welcome up here, anyway."

Wallace bent down over the corpse of the Infected whom he had just killed and wiped his nightstick clean on the former man's shirt. He then sheathed his nightstick and slid his arms under the corpse and, after a good heave, rolled it off of the roof. "Alright, everyone back downstairs," the veteran police sergeant led the way back down the ladder into the foodstore's backroom.

Chief followed him down, with Carson bringing up the rear. The other sergeant sealed the hatch above him before dropping down to the floor.

One of the other survivors—an older man named Henry—was waiting for them. "How's it look out there?" the older man asked.

"We've got company outside," Carson replied, gesturing towards the windows at the front of the store. The shuffling, bent silhouettes of Infected could be dimly seen in the barricaded windows, their moans muffled by the glass. Bloody streaks and handprints were smeared all over the glass as the Infected scrabbled at the windows, trying unsuccessfully to tear them down.

"What about the people who started getting sick earlier this afternoon; how are they?" Wallace asked Henry.

Henry shrugged, shaking his head in bewilderment. "They've gotten worse. There are over a dozen of them now—fourteen or fifteen—which is roughly half of everyone here. They've all gotten fevers, flop sweats, and…uh…and a few other things. I'm no doctor; I don't know what's wrong with them."

"Can we have a look?" Carson asked.

Henry shrugged, leading the way back into the main shopping area of the foodstore, heading past the dairy section and through several aisles. Thirteen men and women were lying on makeshift pads behind the deli counter. Most of them were unconscious, but a few were still somewhat awake, mumbling to themselves, tossing and turning, their limbs twitching uncontrollably.

Wallace and Carson had spent most of their time near the front entrance shoring up the barricades, sleeping on the other side of the store, or tending to their supplies in the backroom. They had both known that a good amount of people had come down sick with something, but had never actually gotten around to _seeing_ them; that much was evident by the expressions on their faces.

Wallace crouched down next to a pale, skinny, bald man—the most lucid of the group of sick people. "Any idea what's wrong with you?" the sergeant asked the man.

"H-hell if I know," the skinny man stuttered in response. Despite his fever and profuse sweating, Wallace noted that he seemed to be shivering. His next statement confirmed Wallace's observation. "Got any extra blankets around here? I'm f-freezing…"

"Sorry, man, everything we've got is spread out over all y'all back here," Wallace replied in apology, "Just hang in there."

Carson straightened up and stepped out from around the deli counter, having seen enough. Henry and Wallace followed him. "Can whatever they have spread? Is it contagious?" Carson asked.

Henry shrugged. "No idea. All o' them people on the floor back there got sick at the same time and have been like this for several hours now, but no one else has come down with anything. Whatever it is, it's probably not airborne."

"Do they have whatever those..._things_ outside have?" Wallace gestured back over to the windows at the front of the store, where the Infected outside could still be seen, silhouetted against the handful of streetlights which were still functioning after the military firebombing of General Hospital nearby.

Henry shrugged again. "If I knew what the Infected had, then I could give you an answer. Only ones who knew what those fuckers were coming down with were in the hospitals. Catch my drift?"

"All too well," Wallace sighed. The veteran police sergeant remained silent for a few seconds, considering what to do with the sick people. "I don't know what they have, but it looks pretty damn suspicious. I think we should keep 'em all in isolation."

"Where?" Henry asked, "This place isn't exactly a gymnasium in terms of size and space."

"We could stick 'em all in the backroom," Carson suggested, "It's the only place here with a securable door."

Wallace's mouth hardened into a thin line as he considered that option. It didn't settle well with the police sergeant. "If we do that, we congest our only route of escape."

"We still can't risk having everyone else getting sick," Carson argued, "If we all come down sick with whatever, we're all screwed."

"Alright…" Wallace hesitated, then nodded in grudging agreement, "Alright. Chief, go find a few strong people and wake 'em up; there's no way in hell I'm carrying all these people into the backroom by myself."

* * *

"That the last of them?" Wallace asked as Carson and another woman lay another sick person down on the ground, right near the base of the roof access ladder.

Carson swept his gaze over the stricken people lying on the ground, performing a quick headcount. He nodded after he finished. "Yep, all thirteen," the officer confirmed.

"Alright," Wallace murmured, pausing for a long, weary yawn. "Alright, let's lock this door up. We'll check on 'em all again in the morning…"

Everyone who had been woken up dispersed, returning to their sleeping spots on the floors between the aisles of the foodstore. Sergeant Wallace soon found himself alone with Carson, Chief, and Henry at the door to the back room. He quickly double-checked the door, making sure it was locked.

"Do we have anyone here with any medical know-how?" Carson asked Henry, who knew the most about the rest of the people holed up in the foodstore and what their respective capabilities were.

Henry shook his head, scratching the wisps of gray hair around his temples. "No one that I know of. We've got clerks, accountants, street cleaners, even a pilot," the older man nodded to Chief, "…no doctors or nurses, though."

Carson let out another sigh as he turned away from the door, heading into the aisles. "Those people in there aren't just down with a light cold—they're _sick_, and they don't seem like they're going to be getting better anytime soon. What they need is help, or at least someone who can point us in the right direction…we have neither."

Chief grunted in agreement. "Kind of makes you think of those sieges in the old days, against castles or fortresses where the bodies of dead defenders were cooped up with the living. You couldn't just leave the dead lying about; you had to get rid of them before the diseases from their corpses killed your entire garrison. We're in a vastly similar situation…only the corpses in question are still alive."

"They aren't getting any better…and we can't just get rid of them…" Wallace muttered. He paused again, trying to think of something which could lead to a decision, but his fatigued mind was off in another dimension. He shrugged, sliding down to the floor, pulling over the discarded jacket which he had used previously as his makeshift blanket. Carson lay down in the aisle as well, stretching out next to his old friend.

Chief and Henry both murmured 'goodnight' and went on their way, heading to another part of the store where they had chosen as their place to sleep.

Wallace grabbed his notepad which he had been writing in before Carson had interrupted him, pulling out a pencil and continuing to put into words what was on his mind. He wrote for a solid few minutes until his eyelids began to droop and he caught himself nodding off to sleep several times. The veteran police sergeant flipped the notebook closed and slid it into an inside pocket, stowing the pencil along with it.

He felt over to his side, feeling the familiar shape of his shotgun, and then checked his waist to make sure his nightstick and P220 were still there. Satisfied that he had all of his gear in place, Wallace pulled his riot shield over and used it as a makeshift pillow, resting his head on the convex plexiglass surface, cushioned by a clump of plastic bags.

Wallace let out one final yawn and closed his eyes. He was asleep before he took another breath.

* * *

"Jerome, wake the hell up!!"

A gunshot and the crash of shattering glass brought Sergeant Wallace jerking back to full awareness. "What the-"

Sergeant Carson grabbed his old friend by the underarms and hauled him to his feet. Rasping moans could be heard all around, along with the crunching noise of feet trodding on the broken glass.

"What the fuck happened?!" Wallace screamed, bending over to strap on his riot shield.

"No time; we have to move! They're pouring in!"

Sure enough, as Wallace grabbed his Mossberg 590 tactical shotgun, there was another crash and the whole aisle rocked as something large smashed into it. A large group of ragged, disheveled, bloodied Infected came sprinting past the end of the aisle. One of them was a head taller than the rest, with muscles like a pro body-builder. Suddenly, Wallace had a good idea of how the barricades barring the front windows had been breached.

Wallace did not know how many Infected had forced their way into the foodstore, but he did not stop to count. The answer was simply _too damn many_.

Some of the Infected running past the aisle Wallace and Carson were in took notice of the two cops and peeled away from the main group, running towards their newly-acquired targets.

"To the backroom!" Carson shouted, "Take my six, aight?!"

"Gotcha!" Wallace nodded, positioning himself behind his old friend as Carson made his way down the aisle towards the back of the foodstore. He shouldered his Mossberg and fired at the first Infected to lunge at him. The former-woman's head vanished in a discharge of red.

Three more Infected were right behind the first woman, and half a dozen more behind them. "Reg, I'm gonna need a hand back here!" Wallace exclaimed, taking down another Infected with a clean shot to the chest, turning most of its upper vital organs into hamburger.

"Hold a second, I'm getting the door!" Carson shouted back in reply. He had reached the door to the backroom. Once they were in the backroom, the two cops would be able to slip out the back door and into the alley.

Wallace crouched down low, firmly planting his riot shield on the floor. The eight Infected seemed to all crash into him at once. The plexiglass shield was torn away in an instant. Wallace racked the pump of his Mossberg and fired again into the seething mass of limbs, blood, and teeth, hitting two more Infected with one shot.

Suddenly, there were two loud reports from the firing of a shotgun off to the side, and three more Infected attacking Wallace were sent to the ground, their heads either gone or horribly mutilated from the blasts.

Wallace swept out his leg and tripped another Infected up, sending it crashing to the floor. While he did this he unsheathed his nightstick and brought it whipping around, bashing in the skull of one of the three remaining Infected, permanently taking him out of commission. He quickly delivered another coup-de-grâce to the Infected who he had tripped. He winced as blood spattered his face, but did not falter.

The one remaining Infected leaped for Wallace's throat as the veteran sergeant was sliding his nightstick into its sheath when a third loud _**boom**_ sounded off to the side again. The Infected was hit in the chest. It sailed off and crashed into one of the aisle corners, where it lay on the ground, growling, trying to reach its killers even in its death throes.

Wallace swiveled his eyes over to the left, where he saw Henry, the older man in the pastel yellow vest, and the still-smoking double-barreled twelve-gauge he was holding, still aimed at the last Infected it had removed from this world. Another woman—Wallace thought her name was Amanda—stood behind Henry, clutching a small handgun.

"Much appreciated, brother!" Wallace nodded to Henry, who said nothing.

Agonized screams and wails filled the foodstore as the Infected began to devour the other survivors inside. No one else except for Henry and Amanda had made it to the door with the two cops.

With the other survivors being eaten, it served as a distraction for the horde pouring through the front windows, giving them something else to do besides charge the three remaining people who were trying to break through the back door. Wallace considered that, but felt sick to his stomach, ashamed that a thought such as that could even cross his mind.

Carson gave up trying to unlatch the door and instead fired a shot from his Mossberg into the doorknob, following up with a strong kick to the door's center. The pulverized metal door swung inwards.

Carson pushed his way inside, only to see the soft light of morning coming through the backdoor, which was in the process of being torn down by the horde of Infected in the alley on the other side.

Carson's gaze dropped to the floor next. He had seen his fair share of action during his career as a police officer. Contrary to popular belief, head-splitting action such as high-speed car chases, gang shootouts, or armed confrontations did not happen every day, but Carson had been through enough to give him the ability to assess tactical situations at light-speed. He did this now, taking in the door which was being broken down, and then the thirteen people crouched on the floor.

The thirteen sick people who Carson, Wallace, Henry, Chief, and several others had locked away in the backroom last night were still there…only now _they_ were throwing up green bile, just like the things outside. Their skin was deathly pale and sallow, and their hair had already begun to fall out, after being infected for only a day. They were Infected, now.

Thirteen pairs of animalistic, yellow, bloodshot eyes turned towards the door, taking in the armored figure which had broken it down and disturbed their peace.

"_Shit!_" Carson exclaimed, hefting his shotgun as the nearest Infected sprang to their feet, rushing him. The sergeant clocked the first Infected in the jaw with the butt of his shotgun, swinging around and quickly emptying two shots into the next two to lunge for him. A sharp, white-hot pain shot up his leg suddenly and he whipped around, seeing the legless Infected who was sinking its teeth into his calf. Carson swore, kicking the Infected off, and then brought his boot crushing down on its skull, sending bone and brain matter all over the floor. The bite burned and hurt like hell, but Carson ignored it. If he allowed it to distract him, he would get a lot worse.

Amanda slid up next to Carson, dropping another Infected with a headshot from her pistol before taking aim at another. Henry had finished reloading his double-barreled shotgun by now, and he tapped Carson on the shoulder. The sergeant took the hint and stood to the side. The twin barrels of Henry's shotgun roared, spitting twelve-gauge buckshot into the group of Infected.

Wallace's heart leapt as he spotted at least another two dozen Infected come sprinting out of the aisles, heading right for the sound of the gunfire, which happened to be where the four remaining survivors were standing. "Reg, we gotta move!" the black sergeant thundered.

"Yeah, Jerome, thanks for the advice!" Carson shot back, rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath.

"Get to the roof access ladder, it's our only shot!" Henry shouted, gesturing towards the set of rust-red rungs climbing up the wall to the roof access hatch set into the ceiling.

Carson leaped across the room, minding his injured leg, knocking two more Infected aside with the butt of his weapon, and grabbed hold of the ladder, pulling himself up. Amanda, Wallace, and Henry hurried over and crouched down at the foot of the ladder, staving off the Infected which began to come through the door in pursuit.

Carson reached the ceiling and pushed the roof hatch open, climbing outside. Henry started up the ladder next. Though he looked as if he were a little past the sunny side of sixty years old, Henry scampered up that ladder with the speed and strength of a twenty-year-old in his prime. Amazing what the threat of being eaten could do for a man's fitness and endurance. Wallace quickly started up under Henry, climbing up with one hand while holding his shotgun in his other, using it to cover Amanda, who was right below him.

The back door broke down as Henry reached the rooftop. A surge of Infected poured through, some sprinting right through the backroom and into the foodstore beyond, but the majority converged on the ladder.

Wallace clamped a hand on the edge of the roof hatch, hoisting himself up through the square opening. He turned around and extended a hand down to Amanda, who took it and started to pull herself up when she suddenly let out a surprised yelp, her eyes widening.

Wallace was jerked forward as the Infected holding Amanda's legs started to pull her back down. "Jesus _H_, these fuckers are strong…" the sergeant grunted, planting both of his feet at the edge of the hatchway and heaving.

There was a horrible tearing noise, accompanied with a large spurt of blood from below. Amanda really started to scream after that. Wallace didn't even want to know what that tearing noise had been, though he still had a good idea. Taking one look below Amanda's waist, he knew that even if he could have pulled the woman out, she would have bled to death in a matter of minutes.

Wallace did not want to just leave her to the horde either, so he dropped his shotgun to the ground and reached down to his belt, drawing his P220. He cocked it and thumbed the safety, pressing it to Amanda's forehead. "I'm sorry!" the sergeant shouted, and then pulled the trigger.

The sidearm gave a sharp report and Amanda stopped screaming. Wallace let go of her arms, letting her fall back into the backroom of the foodstore. The Infected below continued up the ladder, their path no longer hindered by Amanda's body. Wallace grabbed hold of the hatch and brought it slamming down on their heads, barring and sealing it from above. Nothing was getting through now.

Wallace wiped the blood off of his face with his arm, taking a deep, shaky breath. He made his way over to one of the ventilation ducts set on the roof of the foodstore, sitting down and resting his head in his hands.

Carson and Henry both joined him, sitting on either side of the black sergeant. All three of them sat in silence, saying nothing, doing nothing. They were still in a state of quasi-shock. So much had happened in such a small amount of time…in the chaos of the Infected breaking through the barricades and turning the foodstore into a bloodbath for the survivors holed up inside, time had seemed to fly. There had been no time to stop and think, to process and understand the Hell which had just dropped in; Wallace, Carson, and Henry had had to _move_.

Now, on the empty, 'safe' rooftop of the foodstore, the three remaining survivors had time to do just that. "That felt…_wrong_…" Wallace mumbled.

"Hm?" Carson grunted inquiringly, turning to glance at his old friend.

"That woman on the ladder…Amanda, or whatever her name was…" Wallace murmured, his voice low and pensive, "You saw what I did. She wasn't infected…"

"You did her a favor, officer," Henry said, "They would have torn her to ribbons while she was still alive and screaming. Believe me; you probably did her the best favor she's ever gotten in her entire life."

"I know, I know; it was a mercy kill…but still…doesn't do _me_ any personal good…" Wallace sighed, climbing to his feet, walking across the roof and up to the edge. He glanced down at the streets, which now had Infected on every sidewalk and every corner. More of the shuffling, twitching forms could be seen in the countless windows and doorways running up and down the street. Wallace didn't even want to think about how far the Infection in the city had spread by now, how many people were now mindless, vicious animals, or corpses. Too many. He pushed those thoughts from his mind and turned his gaze upwards.

The sun was beginning to approach its early morning ascension. The eastern horizon, or at least the parts of it visible in between the skyscrapers and high-rises which formed the cityscape, had lightened into a shade of blue which was lighter than the dark navy of post-midnight, but not as bright as the pre-sunrise cyan. Subtle hints of pink and maroon were also faintly visible at the very edges.

It was going to be a beautiful dawn.

* * *

_ Henry tells me it was a mercy-kill, that I shouldn't feel guilty_…_well, that's just a huge sack of it. Maybe if I had let that woman go up first, maybe if I had climbed faster_… _I don't think I'm going to have a good night's sleep for a while. The rules changed today. Before it had been survival—pure and simple. Today, I killed a woman. Maybe I did her a favor, but I killed her because I wasn't fast enough. It was my fault she had to die. Now, I'm starting to wonder what we all are going to have to sacrifice to live through this ordeal, and I'm afraid that if we _do _come through in one piece_… _I probably won't like what's left. Killing that woman was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do_…_ I only hope that when—_if_—the time ever comes, Carson would do the same for me._

_ **J. W.**_


	6. Chapter 5: Another Day, Another Dollar

Chapter Five: Another Day, Another Dollar

Sergeant Jerome Wallace watched as the sun finally crested over the eastern horizon. The first telltale rays of gold and yellow peeked over the horizon and shone through the cityscape. The tops of the tallest skyscrapers had been illuminated by the sunlight for a little while, sunlight which was gradually traveling further and further down as the sun drew closer to its emergence. Now, the edges of the sun were visible to those on the ground.

Wallace breathed in the cool, crisp morning air, enjoying the coolness before the summer sun did its work and made the day hot and sticky. "Hey, sun's up," the veteran police sergeant said to his companions. He walked over to Reg Carson, his friend from the old days in the police academy, and prodded him with his foot, jostling him awake, "Reg! Common, Reg, we gotta get movin'."

Carson let out a low moan and forced his eyes open, pushing himself up to his knees, and then climbing to his feet. He winced as he put weight on his left leg, where he had been bitten by one of the Infected during the escape from the foodstore below.

Though it was a subtle reaction, Wallace, who had always had an affinity for detail, noticed it, putting the two and two together to make four. "The bite still bothering you?" Wallace asked.

Carson nodded, but said nothing, offering only a slight shrug.

"Keep an eye on it," Wallace advised, "Don't want you coming down with a staph infection or anything like that." The black sergeant moved over to the other man with them on the roof of the foodstore, a fifty-eight year old man named Henry. Wallace lay a hand on the sleeping man's shoulder and shook him awake. "It's time to leave," Wallace said.

Henry cracked open his eyes. "Sunrise already?" the older man croaked, his voice raspy with the dreariness of waking up.

"'Fraid so," Wallace offered Henry a hand, but the older man declined, climbing to his feet by himself. The police sergeant bent down and picked up Henry's twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun, flipping it around and holding it out to the older man grip-first.

Henry took the weapon, nodding in thanks. He opened the breech and reached into his shoulder-bag and pulled out two shells, slotting them into the two barrels and snapping the breech closed. "I'm ready whenever you youngsters are," the older man nodded to the two policemen.

"Alright, let's head out," Carson said, walking over to the edge of the roof. He paused when he reached the end, tapping his foot, a frown creasing his forehead. "Uh…where exactly are we going?" the sergeant asked, "Never really thought that far ahead yet. Where the hell are we supposed to go from here?"

"There's gotta be an evac _somewhere_ in the city," Wallace muttered, pausing to think, "You still have your radio?"

"Nope," Carson shook his head, "Lost it at General Hospital. You?"

"It's downstairs," Wallace gestured to the cemented roof at his feet, referring to the Infected-filled foodstore which lay below. The night before, a mob of Infected had broken through the barriers erected against the foodstore's front windows, allowing dozens of them to pour in. The survivors inside had been massacred. Wallace, Carson, and Henry—the only survivors of the foodstore—had been up on its roof ever since. "I sure as hell ain't goin' down there to get it."

"Then where the hell are we supposed to find a radio?" Carson sighed in frustration, "Without one, we might as well be blind and deaf. We'll never be able to find out where the military is, or where they're evacuating citizens."

"_If_ they're still evacuating citizens…" Wallace muttered, "The city sounds awfully quiet to me."

Carson instinctively cocked his head, falling silent and listening closely to the environment around him. There were the raspy moans of the Infected on the street below, the occasional burst of distant gunfire, and the faint popping of smoke and flames…but there were no human voices or sounds, no sirens, no helicopter pilots, no horns or cars. Carson found that Wallace was right; the city _was_ too quiet.

"General Hospital wasn't the only place to have Infected," Wallace pointed out, "Saint Mary's, West Children's, Downtown General, Saint Christopher's, and all the others; we heard reports of similar outbreaks from the other hospitals all over the city."

"God knows how fast they spread…" Henry murmured, "And it wouldn't be like having a single epicenter which the ripples spread further and further away from. With all those hospitals having outbreaks…the infection would spread from many places, and eventually each individual outbreak would mingle with the adjacent ones. It would have happened all last night; it would would have been dark, the news media and the populace in a chaos, a frenzy to get out…we could be looking at the worst road jams of we've ever seen in our lifetimes."

"Well, that shoots down escaping this hellhole in a car or truck," Wallace concluded. "All the highways and roads are gonna be clogged tighter than a stuffy nose."

"Hey…we're on North 24th Avenue right now, aren't we?" Carson asked suddenly, the wheels in his mind beginning to turn.

"Yeah," Wallace replied, curious to see where his friend was going with this.

"If we stick to this road and head south, it should take us back to our district…my point is that we should head to the Sidewinder. We can resupply there, but remember that one time two years ago when that ice storm ripped through the area? We lost power for over a week, but Seamus had that hand-cranked survival radio which he used to listen to the hockey game."

"That's right…" Wallace nodded, a slight grin appearing at the edge of his mouth, "That radio was his life's blood after the TV went down. And since it's hand-cranked, we don't need to worry about batteries. Probably the only hand-cranked radio we're ever gonna find, might as well go after it."

"It's settled, then," Henry affirmed, joining Wallace at the edge of the roof. "Just one thing…what the hell is the Sidewinder?"

"Only the best pub ever to grace the streets of this city," Carson shrugged, "Something like that."

"Yeah, that sums it up," Wallace grunted in agreement. "Everyone ready? If y'all got any last things you want to take care of here, now's your last chance. Nothing? Aight, groovy, let's get the hell off this roof."

Wallace and Carson first gave Henry a hand, lowering him down from the edge of the roof as far they could before letting him drop to the sidewalk. The two cops then dropped down on their own. The foodstore was only a single story tall, so the drop was not far, only fifteen or so feet. Wallace and Carson made sure to bend their knees and fall into a crouch when they hit the pavement, absorbing most of the shock of the impact.

The nearest Infected sharing the same street turned towards the three men, taking note of their sudden presence with outright hostility. There were a dozen or so staggering about the sidewalk nearby, and all of them turned towards Wallace, Carson, and Henry, sprinting as fast as they could. Blood and spittle flew from their mouths as they pressed on, loping over the cars in the road and the piles of rubbish on the sidewalks.

"Right!" Wallace exclaimed, dropping to his knee and drawing his P220.

Carson did likewise, kneeling next to his friend, thumbing the safety off of his sidearm. "Six for six?" the sergeant asked.

"Sounds fair," Wallace conceded. He took aim at the nearest Infected, squeezing off a shot. The Infected's eye imploded and it tripped up, falling to the asphalt, lying motionless, a pool of blood spreading out around its head. Wallace moved on to his next target. His next shot missed the head, catching the woman in the side of the neck. The Infected gave a pained growl, but kept right on running.

Henry fired one of the two shells in his shotgun, taking off the top of the Infected woman's head.

"Down one, that's our tie-breaker," Carson said, firing off three shots into the chest of another oncoming Infected before dropping a second who came up right behind the first.

Wallace took out a fifth Infected, and then a sixth, methodically and carefully aiming for headshots in order to conserve ammunition. More and more Infected fell to Wallace and Carson's careful aim as they charged the two police sergeants until finally there was just one remaining. Both cops brought their sidearms about, took aim, and fired at the same time. Two bullets slammed into the Infected's skull at the same time, actually flinging the disheveled man back several paces.

Both Wallace and Carson hesitated, seeing the last Infected fall. "Whose was that?" Carson asked.

Wallace shrugged. "Tie?" he suggested.

Carson, recognizing the olive branch, nodded in agreement. "Tie."

Henry gave the two cops an odd, sidelong glance. "You boys are going to be in straitjackets by the end of the week," the older man quipped, rolling his eyes.

Wallace shrugged, checking to see how many rounds he had left in his current mag. "It's easier to shoot targets than it is to kill men and women time after time."

Carson gave an agreeing grunt. "We should just keep count and let the end of the day decide who gets the most," the other police sergeant suggested, "If we keep on doing it after every street, we'll end up losing track-" the veteran sergeant broke off suddenly, falling into a coughing fit.

Wallace put a hand on his friend's back as Carson continued to cough. It was a deep, chesty cough; more than once Carson had to hock up unmentionables from deep in his throat, spitting them out onto the sidewalk. "Watch the boots, man," Wallace said, moving his foot to avoid one of Carson's lugies.

"You alright, officer?" Henry asked, concern flitting across his lined face.

"I'm fine…" Carson managed to say between coughs. Finally, the coughing subsided, allowing Carson to take a deep breath. The sergeant exhaled, standing back up straight. "I'm fine," Carson repeated himself, shaking his head to clear it. "Call me Reg, by the way."

"Okay…_Reg_," Henry murmured, though the name sounded funny coming out of the mouth of an older man who seemed to have not had any close friends for the past decade.

"We'll work on it," Carson said to the older man, suppressing a grin.

"You're _sure_ you're alright?" Wallace didn't sound convinced, but he was ready to lay the matter to rest if Carson maintained his charade.

"Yeah, Jerome, I'm pretty damn sure," Carson sighed. "Just got something stuck in my throat."

"Yeah, about ten pounds of phlegm…" Wallace muttered, prodding Carson's discharge on the sidewalk with his boot. "Keep an eye on yourself, Reg; you're no good to me on your back retching your guts out."

"Noted," Carson rolled his eyes. "Now, if we're done going through our little med-school session, shall we get a move on? The Sidewinder ain't gettin' any closer on its own."

Wallace gave a slight nod and started to head down the sidewalk, walking south. Henry and Carson fell in step with the black sergeant, walking on either side of him.

"That baby yours?" Wallace gestured to the twelve-gauge Henry was holding, breaking the silence after a long stretch of walking.

"This? Naw," the older man shook his head, "Picked it up in the foodstore after the zombie things broke through the windows…I don't think it's previous owner is going to be needing any longer…"

"Next time we find a weapon, you might want to swap out," Wallace suggested. "That weapon can only hold two shots at a time…and if another horde decides to jump us, the reload time on that sucker is gonna kill you."

"I'll keep my eyes open," Henry said, giving an agreeing nod. "It'll have to make do for now, though."

Wallace, Carson, and Henry continued walking down the road, heading south towards the heart of the city. There were more Infected wandering the street as they kept on walking, but there were no overly large groups of them—nothing on the scale of the flood of Infected that Wallace and Carson had nearly drowned in at General Hospital.

Usually, the Infected would come at the three men in twos or threes, either coming from further up the road, from the outlying streets and alleys, or from the countless shops and windows lining the sidewalks. There were dozens of Infected shuffling about, but they did not all take notice of the three men at the same time. Sometimes, Wallace would be able to walk right up to an Infected man or woman before the animalistic creature would take notice of them, other times they could sense him from hundreds of yards away. Another observation he made was that the ones who did not immediately notice his presence _did_ notice other Infected running towards him, and would therefore join in. The nearby ones were also drawn by gunfire, but they weren't exactly attracted to it; it was more something that they simply noticed and treated as a hostile threat, which it usually was.

The three men walked down that same road for an hour or two, or three—Wallace easily lost track of time. He did not have a watch…but when he really thought about it, a watch was good only for telling specific time, and specific time was only good for rigid schedules, or ensuring that you don't show up to work late. Well, work and schedules certainly were no longer a concern—having the world as you know it crumble all around you, torn down by bloodthirsty zombie-things, tends to change one's outlook on life a little bit. Wallace already had a way of telling time; looking up into the sky and seeing where the sun was. If it were cloudy, he would simply look up and see how bright it was, but today was a perfectly clear summer day.

The sun was passing its noontime apex in the sky when Wallace held up a hand and had everyone stop to take a breather. "In here," the black sergeant gestured to a convenience store which they were passing by. He holstered his P220 and unsheathed his nightstick, executing a theatrical twirl before swinging it around and thrusting it into the glass window, shattering it.

The two Infected which were inside instantly whipped around to face the loud noise, baring their teeth and leaping at the disruptor of their peace. Wallace flashed a toothy grin as he brought his nightstick around and cracked the first man across the temple, sending blood and bone fragments flying away. Henry took aim and emptied one of his barrels into the second Infected just as Wallace was turning to intercept the man.

The sergeant ducked and twisted away as the spray of bodily matter from the shotgun blast flew through the space where he had just been standing. "Nice shot," Wallace said to the older man, paying his respect where it was due. The sergeant then walked through the handful of aisles to the drinks shelves, sliding open one of the plastic doors and grabbing three bottles of water. He kept one and tossed the other two to Carson and Henry.

Everyone relieved their earlier thirst by pretty much downing their entire bottles. Wallace grabbed three more water bottles and passed them out, saying, "Don't know when we're gonna find anymore water like this; might as well take some with us."

"Anyone feeling a little chilly?" Carson spoke up, stuttering his words a little as he said them.

Wallace looked at his old friend like he had just turned purple and sprouted two additional heads. "Reg…it's over eighty degrees outside; what have you been smoking?"

Carson said nothing. He wordlessly tucked away his water bottle and unholstered his P220, walking over to the shattered window. Wallace looked closely and noticed that his friend was looking a little on the pale side. He also observed that Carson, for the past hour or so, had begun to limp, dragging his left leg—the one which had the bite wound. He had had another one or two coughing fits as well. Something was amiss with the veteran sergeant; that much was evident, but Wallace did not know what it was, and Carson stubbornly refused to admit that he was feeling under the weather.

Wallace was picking his way back outside through the broken window when he heard it; a faint, blaring noise echoing off the faces of the buildings from further down the street. It stopped for a second, then resumed.

"Is that a car horn?" Henry asked, cocking his head in order to hear the mysterious sound better.

"That was my first thought," Wallace agreed. "It's not a car alarm—the pitch is too low…it's not broken either, the pattern is irregular. Someone, somewhere, is honking it."

"Might as well give the poor bastard a hand, whoever he is…" Henry declared, "That horn's gonna attract anything else with the ability to hear; we should get a move on."

The three men checked their weapons one last time before setting off back down the street at as fast of a sprint as Carson could manage with his injured leg. As they were in a hurry, they blew right past several allies full of Infected. In most cases, they moved fast enough for the Infected to even notice them, but occasionally Wallace or Carson would have to take out a few Infected who actually gave chase.

The car horn grew louder and louder until Wallace finally spotted the source; an overturned silver sedan with a thick ring of snarling, shrieking Infected surrounding it. The ghouls were all over the overturned car—around it, on top of it, all of them scrabbling, clawing at the windows, trying with animalistic fervor to gain entry.

Wallace could see a man inside the car. He couldn't get a good look at him, but he could tell that he was still strapped into the driver's seat, hanging upside-down, laying on the horn. Sure, honking the horn was attracting the nearby Infected, but there was no other way to call for help.

The window of the sedan cracked ever so slightly, allowing the man inside to shout, "Excuse me! I could use a hand over here, if it's not such a terrible inconvenience!" The man's voice was dripping with sarcasm and frustration, and it was oddly accented. Wallace thought it sounded Bostonian.

"Uh-huh," Wallace made a snap weapons decision, holstering his P220 and grabbing his Mossberg-590 tactical shotgun, which he was wearing on his back, secured with a leather shoulder strap. He unshouldered the shotgun and racked the pump, sliding the first shell into the chamber. He thumbed the safety, aimed at the nearest Infected at the car, and opened fire. The blast caught three Infected who were bunched up in a group, trying to break through the rear window.

Henry's double-barreled twelve-gauge roared twice, spitting a hail of buckshot into more of the clustered ghouls, clearing off all of the ones in front of the windshield. Carson opened fire as well, taking out the five or six ghouls who were on top of the overturned car.

By then, most of the Infected took their attention off of their desired meal in the car and acknowledged the three armed men who had just come to permanently ruin their day. They ceased their assault on the overturned sedan and rushed the three men, some of them even loping along on all fours.

Wallace emptied another shell into the face of yet another lucky Infected, racking the pump again and bringing the butt of his shotgun smashing into the side of a second Infected's head. Wallace felt something hard and metallic tap him in the back, so he quickly ducked. The twin barrels of Henry's twelve-gauge roared again, sending another hail of buckshot over Wallace's head, tearing into the group of oncoming Infected, taking down at least four, maybe five.

Wallace used up the rest of the shells loaded in his weapon and stowed it away on his back once more, unsheathing his nightstick. The tempered steel police baton ended the lives of many more Infected who tried to have its owner for dinner, crushing skull after skull, snapping bone after bone.

Finally, after what was probably only a minute but what felt like an hour, there were no more Infected left around the overturned sedan. Wallace cautiously approached the driver's window, crouching down and peering inside, giving the glass a light tap with the end of his nightstick. "You in one piece?!" the black sergeant called out.

"I can hear you just fine; you're right next to me," the man inside the overturned car grumbled, rolling his eyes. He was a taller man dressed in a gray business suit. The top of his head was bald, but he had short, curly brown hair all around the fringes. When Wallace finally got a first look at him, the first thought he had was of the character Charles Emerson Winchester III, from M*A*S*H. He had the same features, the same hair, the same voice, and even had the same accent.

"Roll the window down the rest of the way and crawl out," Wallace instructed the man in the sedan.

"Oh, great suggestion. _Roll down the window_; never would have thought of that!" the Bostonian began to sound impatient, "I'll have you know that the windows happens to be jammed. One of you incompetents severed the power to them from the car battery."

Wallace let out an inward sigh, wondering now if maybe he, Carson, and Henry should have just kept going on their way. "Keep your face shielded, then; I'll break the window."

The man in the sedan unbuckled himself from his seat, falling on his shoulder onto the windshield. He crawled over to the passenger side and nodded for Wallace to proceed. Wallace crouched down and, with a powerful blow, shattered the car window with his nightstick. The glass cracked, spiderwebbed, and finally fell away, cascading to the floor in a million little pieces.

What Wallace did not anticipate was the car alarm. The blow which shattered the window set it off. It was a loud, intermittent but rapid caterwaul which seemed to echo through every street and every alley in the whole district.

The Bostonian man grunted and heaved, freeing his leg and crawling back over to the driver's side.

In the distance, there was a loud, collective, growling roar. Others had heard the alarm as well. Wallace's mind flashed back to the grounds of General Hospital, when Carson had accidentally fired a shotgun shell into an idle car, setting off the alarm. The entire horde of Infected swarming the two sergeants had broken off and made a beeline straight for the car, somehow drawn to the high-pitched, wailing car alarm. It did not take a psychic to predict what was going to happen next.

"We're about to get a lot of company!" Wallace shouted, grabbing the Bostonian by the underarms and hauling the businessman out of the overturned sedan, "We gotta move, _now!_"

"No, really, that's alright; I was just planning on hanging around for the damn picnic!" the Bostonian snapped.

"Unless your ass wants to get booted right back into that car, I'd keep your mouth shut for the next year," Carson said in reply, his voice quiet and indifferent. The Bostonian could tell that the veteran sergeant was only partially joking.

"Anyone have a weapon they could spare, then? I apologize, but I need something other than my bare hands; my magical fingernail-swords have not yet grown in," the Bostonian said, speaking in a smooth, condescending manner. Wallace found himself liking this man less and less.

"Reg, toss him your P220!" Wallace shouted over to his friend as the four men started to run, sprinting as fast as they could away from the overturned sedan which was pulling in Infected from all directions.

"You know how to shoot, smartass?" Carson rasped, unholstering his sidearm and throwing it over to the Bostonian.

The New England man caught the weapon in mid-air with his left hand, sliding a new clip into the chamber and pulling back the loading mechanism with a single, swift motion. "We'll soon find out, won't we?"

The horde of Infected came into view. Dozens of the disheveled, ragged, bloodied creatures poured from the alleys and streets, drawn towards the wailing alarm like bees to a honeycomb. Already, there were ghouls swarming all over the overturned car, kicking, clawing, and banging away at it, driven mad by the high-pitched beeping.

The Infected running down 24th Avenue from the direction in which the four men were heading instead turned their attention towards the quartet of potential meals. Unfortunately for them, the so-called meals had guns, and they knew how to use them.

Wallace quickly pushed another round of shells from his ammunition belt and into his Mossberg. He thumbed the safety, racked the pump, and opened fire, catching two Infected—one right through the head and into a second's chest.

Henry fired off both of the barrels of his twelve-gauge, aiming for clumped groups of Infected which were close enough together to be able to be taken down with a single well-aimed blast. The older man opened up the breech, ejecting the two spent shells and quickly pushing in a new pair, snapping the shotgun closed and picking a new target.

The four men kept up a steady stream of fire as they sprinted down the street, but there were roughly fifty or so Infected which were still hot on their heels. The car alarm faded into the background as the four men survivors made some headway, but the Infected kept right on their tail like hungry bloodhounds. Deep down, Sergeant Wallace knew that it was impossible to outrun the Infected indefinitely—they simply were no longer affected by Human limits such as weariness or fatigue. If they smelled a meal, they would keep right on chasing it until either they caught and ate it, got killed in turn, or if Hell had a blizzard.

Carson stumbled suddenly, collapsing to the asphalt on all fours. He began to cough, falling into another fit of deep, chesty hacking and spitting. He vomited in between coughs, sending a stream of greenish-brown bile splattering onto the road.

"Reg!" Wallace called out to his friend, stowing his Mossberg away on his back and hurrying over to his friend, picking up Carson's discarded Mossberg and slinging it over his shoulder, crossing the two shotguns on his back in a rough X. He then grabbed Carson by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet, throwing an arm over his shoulder, holding Carson up.

"Jerome?" Carson murmured in between coughs, "I—think—I'm—sick…"

"See, now, it's _that_ kind of attention to detail that must have gotten you through the academy," the Bostonian grunted over the gunfire. "Speaking of which, officer, your sick friend can no longer run; he is only going to slow us down. Now I know that you would probably plug me if I suggested abandoning him, so how about we do the next best thing and find someplace to hole out until he can move again!"

"Smartass has a point, officer," Henry agreed, speaking up as he fired away both barrels of his twelve-gauge for the umpteenth time. He broke off, reaching into his shoulder bag for more shells to replace the most recently fired ones. The Bostonian's only response to the older man's jab was a simple sniff.

Wallace looked over the buildings and finally caught sight of an apartment complex half a block or so down the road. "I nominate the apartments; it'll be easier to barricade ourselves in there for a short while than it would in a single-story shop."

"Well, that's settled," Henry nodded, giving the plan its touch of finality.

More Infected began to stream onto 24th Avenue, drawn to the street by the significant presence of Infected already there, still trying to chase down their next four meals.

The four men reached the apartment building without too many more complications. Henry got there first, pushing the doors open with his shoulder and holding it open for the Bostonian and the two cops. Wallace passed Carson over to Henry and quickly pushed the doors back closed, grunting with the effort as he felt the weight of the Infected on the other side trying to break through.

"Upstairs, upstairs!" Henry exclaimed, "We can sack out in one of the rooms up there."

"Go," Wallace gestured towards the stairwell, "Take Reg up with you." As the others complied, Wallace fumbled with the door's lock, quickly latching it and taking a tentative step back, seeing if the door would hold.

It did.

Wallace turned on his heel and sprinted over to and up the stairs of the apartment complex, quickly ascending to the fifth and highest floor, emerging into the hallway, where he saw Henry heading into an already-open apartment. There was a single gunshot, and then silence.

Wallace headed into the apartment and found a dead Infected on the floor. "Get the window," the sergeant said to the Bostonian, who—eyeing the dead body with a great deal of distaste—actually obeyed, crossing over and opening one of the windows. "I never got your name," Wallace said to the Bostonian as he dragged the corpse over to the window, lifted it up, and heaved it out, quickly closing it before he could hear the sickening sound of the body hitting the pavement below.

"Charles," was all the Bostonian said in reply. "Last names are not of much use anymore."

"Charles? You don't say," Wallace chuckled to himself, thinking again of the character of the same name from M*A*S*H. The black sergeant locked the window, and then headed over to the door and sealed it as well.

A collective sigh of relief rose up through the apartment as the four men dropped their gear and flopped down onto the sofa and chairs in the main room. Wallace helped Carson into the bathroom, where the other sergeant spent close to the next hour retching his guts out into the toilet. Luckily, the place still had working plumbing.

"What the fuck is wrong with me, Jerome?" Carson managed to sigh after the vomiting stopped. Wallace had taken him into the master bedroom, laying him down on the bed.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Wallace murmured. He broke out into a grin, "Hell we've survived worse, right?"

"Right," Carson smiled as well, having no choice but to agree. "Are there any blankets in this place? I feel…cold…" the sergeant broke off into what seemed like another coughing fit, but he only coughed four or five times before stopping.

Wallace's brow furrowed, his mind flashing back to the foodstore, where he had heard someone say something eerily similar before…

"Y-Yeah…" Wallace nodded quickly, ducking out of the room. "Yeah, I'll hook you up, aight? Get some rest or I'll knock you out and force you to sleep." The black sergeant withdrew from the room, heading back into the main room. He said nothing. He sank down into the couch and let out a long sigh, holding his head in his hands.

"He's got it, doesn't he?" Henry asked, quickly putting the two and two together.

"Mm-hm," Wallace grunted.

"You want me to do it?"

"No," Wallace shook his head. "I can do it."

* * *

Night quickly fell over the city. The moans of the Infected were omnipresent all throughout the streets outside. That strange, mysterious atmosphere of night life the city had once possessed was gone, vanished. The city was eerily silent.

The thing that had been lying motionless in the queen-sized bed opened its eyes, taking in its surroundings. It was in a dark, small room, lying on something soft. It sniffed, flaring its nostrils as it caught whiff of a scent. There was food nearby, maybe even in the same room. The thing thrashed and leaped out of the bed, dropping into a predatory stance. Green bile dribbled down its chin and a low growl rose from its throat.

The Infected caught sight of a shadow, a silhouette, a figure sitting in a chair. He was broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, bald—a perfect meal. The Infected took one step towards the figure in the chair, but the dark-skinned man had been ready for this. In his hands he clutched a dark metal object, which he was pointing right towards the Infected's head. His mouth moved and he spoke, saying something. The Infected did not understand what the dark-skinned man had said—all it heard was a jumble of indistinct, meaningless sounds. It took another step forward, reaching its arms out towards the dark-skinned man, and opened its mouth, getting ready to bite down.

There was a loud explosion and the end of the dark metal object which the dark-skinned man was clutching spat fire, which was the last sight the thing that had once been Reginald Carson, sergeant of the 13th Precinct police force, ever saw.

* * *

Sergeant Wallace felt numb as he fired a shell into the head of his oldest friend. He had been waiting in that chair all night long, sitting by the bedside, waiting for his friend to turn. He had not told Carson of his suspicions that he was Infected, but he had had those suspicions for a while. They had been pretty much completely confirmed when the other sergeant had started throwing up green and complaining of being cold, especially outside in the mid-August summer heat.

"I'm sorry, brother," Wallace murmured again, repeating himself.

The black sergeant pulled the blanket off of the bed and threw it over Carson's corpse, making sure it was covered. It was as much of a funeral as his oldest friend would receive. Wallace turned and pushed his way out of the master bedroom, joining Henry and Charles in the main room.

Wordlessly, he tossed Carson's Mossberg and ammunition to Henry, and then gave the Carson's nightstick to the Bostonian. "He won't be needing them anymore," Wallace muttered, keeping his emotions in check.

Charles, for the first time, was completely silent, having nothing to say. The cold, cynical expression which had been ever present in his eyes and face was still there, but it was not as razor-edged as before. Wallace decided to give the man a chance; maybe he would prove himself to be a human being sometime in the future.

"What do we do now?" Henry asked, breaking the silence. The older man had discarded his double-barreled twelve-gauge in favor of Carson's superior Mossberg-590, and was slinging it over his shoulder, as if he were ready to leave.

"Same as before," Wallace declared, standing back up. "We go to the Sidewinder, resupply, and pick up the radio," the black sergeant pulled on his gloves and picked up his nightstick and shotgun from the sofa, sliding the tempered steel police baton into its sheath and slinging his Mossberg over his shoulder. He slapped a fresh mag into his P220 and pulled back the loading mechanism, completely prepping it for use. He peered through the window, glancing at the star-sprinkled night sky, and then at the cityscape. Fires were still burning all over the city, throwing up great clouds of smoke and smog into the air and casting the skyline in a hellish red glow. "Then we get the fuck out of this goddamn city."

* * *

_I hate this. The logical and intelligent decision would be to spend the rest of the night in this place_..._but that I can't do, not with Reg lying in the next room… It's only been two days, and I'm already getting tired of the world. I had to kill a woman back at the foodstore near General Hospital because I did not climb that ladder fast enough, and now I have just killed my best and oldest friend. I had always hoped that Reggie Carson would put me out of my misery in order to avoid my becoming the Infecteds' next meal…Never once had I ever considered the inverse possibility, that _I_ would be the one who would have to kill _him_. I do not want to die, not yet…but if I do, if I don't survive this ordeal…I won't miss this place._

- _**J. W.**_


	7. Chapter 6: The Sidewinder

Chapter Six: The Sidewinder

This was the first time the survivors had traveled by night. Ever since the outbreak at General Hospital and the massacre at the nearby foodstore, Sergeant Jerome Wallace had always fought his way through the streets during the day, holing up in a building for the night.

That changed now. Over an hour ago, Wallace had killed Reginald Carson, his oldest friend from his academy days. It had not been murder; quite the opposite. Carson had been bitten by an Infected during the massacre at the foodstore near General Hospital. That was how the Infection spread; through bites. Since he had been bitten, Carson had gotten progressively sicker until, earlier in the night, he had turned. He had become one of them. He had ceased to be Reginald Carson, sergeant of the 13th Precinct police force, and had started being a mindless beast. He had turned into an Infected.

Wallace had shot his friend, right in the head. Every time the sergeant closed his eyes, every time he fired his Mossberg-590, his mind flashed back to the moment in the apartment bedroom as he quietly sat in the chair by Carson's bedside, waiting for him to stir, and then finally pulling the trigger—

"_Wallace!_"

The African-American gave a little start, roused from his reverie by the exclamation of his name. It had been Charles—the cynical, sarcastic Bostonian—who had hollered at him.

"What is it, Ch-" Wallace started to mumble, but he was interrupted by a sharp pain to his forehead, followed by a rattling clang. He blinked twice and realized that he had walked right into a streetlight pole.

"That," Charles replied dryly, rolling his eyes.

"Maybe we should stop for a rest," Henry suggested.

"_No,_" Wallace said firmly, shaking his head, "No, we are not stopping. The Sidewinder isn't very much further, and the Infected really aren't concentrated in this area."

"Mm…I don't know…" Charles hummed airily, "There's an awful lot more streetlights between here and there. I'm really not liking our chances."

"Fuck you in the heart, smartass," Wallace snapped at the Bostonian, "You didn't just kill your oldest friend back in that apartment; _I_ did. I want you to remember who saved your ass yesterday rather than leaving you to rot in that goddamn car."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Charles gave a theatric sigh, "Here I am, right in the middle of the ruin of modern civilization with the whole world crumbling all around me, but I just discovered the problem; I'm not _happy_ enough. Tell me, gentlemen, what exactly should I be happy about?" The Bostonian businessman posed the question to his companions, raising his eyebrow a fraction of an inch. He then thought about his rhetorical question for a moment and quickly added, "Other than the fact that my competitors back in Boston are most likely dead?"

"Jesus H. Christ, was your heart cryogenically frozen when you were young?" Wallace muttered, disgust turning his voice hoarse and gravelly. When Charles opened his mouth to reply, the sergeant turned away and resumed walking down the middle of the street. "Never mind…"

"Suit yourself," Charles shrugged, "My only concern is that your friend's death, unfortunate as it was, will compromise your ability to survive and function properly out here. If you begin blaming yourself and agonizing over it, you will distract and detach yourself. You are going to make a mistake, possibly a mistake that could get _me_ killed as a consequence. That is unacceptable."

"And just what exactly are you suggesting?" Wallace posed the inquiry to the Bostonian ever so delicately. He paused for a moment and drew his P220 sidearm, taking aim and shooting a lone Infected that had stumbled out onto the street from up ahead. "You need me as much as I could use you. I could have left you to rot in that car, and Henry and I would still be right as rain. If we left you now, alone in this place, you wouldn't last the night."

"Enough, both of you!" Henry exclaimed finally, catching the attention of both men. The older man had never raised his voice before, making his shout all the more effective. "We're going to have to be a team if we're going to get through this. I don't know about you two, but _I_ don't want to die, so you two can just suck it the hell up and start getting along!"

The three men proceeded down the streets in silence afterwards. As always, there were very few Infected roaming the streets. Distant gunfire and, at times, faint screams were prevalent in the background din, as well as rumbling explosions and the ever-present crackling of flames consuming parts of the crumbling city. The sounds were not loud, but they were more than enough to prevent total silence from taking hold.

It was another couple of hours until Henry decided to break the silence. "Sure aren't a lot of Infected 'round these parts…"

"The swarms from General Hospital most likely headed deeper into the city," Wallace hypothesized, "Plenty of people to eat down there. They'll probably spread back out when there's no one left."

"Barely anything left _now,_" Charles muttered, "Sounds like small pockets of people trying to wait it out. They won't last long."

Wallace led the other two men down an alleyway and onto an adjacent street, which he continued down until reaching an intersection. The sergeant gestured down the road that headed south. "The Sidewinder is on this street."

The other two men gazed down the street and both exhaled deeply at the sight that lay ahead. Dozens, maybe hundreds of corpses were sprawled out all over the asphalt. Many more Infected were also on this road; there were at least two or three dozen of the monsters staggering around within the limited radius in which the survivors' flashlights were able to illuminate. Who knew how many more were still lurking in the darkness beyond.

The buzz of flies filled the area, becoming a permanent undertone of the omnipresent din—not loud enough to be considered clearly audible, but just loud enough to be noticed at any and all times. A fetid stink also assaulted the survivors' nostrils, causing all three of them to stop dead for a moment, holding their hands to their noses and trying not to gag.

"_Something_ happened here…" Henry coughed, bringing his hand down from his face and tightening his grip on his newly-acquired Mossberg-590, given to him by Wallace after Carson's death. "Something bad…"

"Oh, what gave it away? Was it the flies?" Charles muttered.

Henry ignored the Bostonian, angling his flashlight further out. In the middle of the street, maybe a block or so down, were two buses that had collided in the middle of the intersection. One look at the blood staining all of the windows told the survivors that those buses had been choc-full of people.

"Must have been a fucking picnic for the Infected here," Wallace sighed, shaking his head slowly as he gazed at the crash, "Poor bastards…"

A low, throaty growl rang out through the street suddenly. Wallace snapped his gaze over to the direction where the noise had come and saw an Infected staring right at them, the light from Henry's flashlight reflecting yellow off of its eyes. The black sergeant pushed Henry's arm down, but it was too late. The Infected already had the survivors in its sights.

Other Infected heard their compatriot's growling moans and turned their heads and bodies, squinting and sniffing, sensing the survivors in the dark. A collective growl rose from their throats and they started to break out into their haphazard, loping run.

"_Fuck!_" Wallace shouted, grabbing his Mossberg and racking the pump, prepping a shell for immediate use. "Everyone back up! Find a corner!"

"And just what the hell good will _that_ do?" Charles exclaimed, hastily pulling his P220 out from an inner pocket of his suit jacket. "Ensure that when people find our skeletons that we'll at least be sitting up?"

"If we're in a corner, nothing will be able to get behind us!" Henry shouted back, catching Charles by the arm and dragging the Bostonian over to a shop entrance annex. Wallace was already down on one knee, his shotgun ready to fire once his companions got out of the way.

Charles stood back as far as he could into the corner, bringing his pistol up to eye level. Henry crouched down next to Wallace, and together the two older men would be able to keep a good amount of unfriendlies away with their shotguns.

"Don't let them bite you!" Wallace hollered, his voice growing hoarse and raw. "Whatever you do, don't let the fuckers bite you!"

"Thank you, that makes me feel just that much better!" the Bostonian's bitter reply was. Charles took aim and squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. The trigger would not budge. "Goddamn safety…" the Bostonian muttered, thumbing the safety off and trying again. This time the pistol fired, sending a nine-millimeter hollow-tipped slug punching right between the eyes of an approaching Infected. A fiery joy coursed through Charles's veins as he watched the Infected fall. He bared his teeth in a feral grin and adjusted his aim, shooting down another Infected, and then another.

Wallace and Henry both opened fire, ripping into the horde bearing down on them, wiping out everything within a ten-foot radius. As quick and deadly as the barrage had been, it did not last. Wallace and Henry both started to reload their shotguns, leaving Charles as the sole source of defending fire.

Wallace had to hand it to the Bostonian . As rude and insensitive as he was to his companions, Charles was not even breaking a sweat from the pressure he was under. He was as calm as a spring breeze, steadily and methodically dropping one Infected after another.

"Henry!" Wallace called over to the older man as he pushed in the last handful of shells, "We have to alternate! You unload on the bastards first, then I'll keep up the fire when you're reloading!"

Henry's only response was a low grunt and a quick nod. The older man slotted in one last shell and racked the pump of his Mossberg, resuming his fire.

Charles slapped a fresh clip into his P220 and continued to drop the sprinting Infected, aiming for quick, clean headshots. Wallace had laid his Mossberg onto the ground and drawn out his nightstick, twirling it around his arm in a brief display of dexterity before swinging it up and shattering the jaw of an Infected that had managed to slip past Henry's radius of fire.

Without Wallace's extra firepower, more and more Infected were able to evade Henry and Charles's efforts to drive them back, but Wallace dealt with all of those fast ones with swift, merciless blows from his nightstick. If Wallace ever ended surviving the Infection, that nightstick of his would have quite a body count and an ocean of blood on its hands.

"I'm out, reloading!" Henry cried as he fired his last shell.

Wallace slid his nightstick back into its sheath and picked up his shotgun, cocking it and squeezing the trigger, blowing a good-sized hole through a diseased woman's midsection. As she fell, inhuman growls and cackles still bubbling from her throat, two more leaped over her corpse.

Wallace took the one on the left out with a shell to the neck, taking off its head, and the second was felled by a slug from Charles's P220.

Another group of four or five Infected loped up to take their fallen compatriots' places. Wallace could not possibly take them all out at once, so he adjusted his aim and fired two shells below their waists. The buckshot shredded all of the Infecteds' legs, forcing them to crawl on their hands and bellies.

Wallace delivered a crushing blow with the butt of his Mossberg's stock to the skulls of each and every one of the crawling Infected. He fired off three more shots into the horde, ripping through clothes, flesh, and viscera. He found himself missing his riot shield and helmet—they had deflected all of the flying bone fragments and innards that had resulted from reducing the Infected to bloody ribbons. Now, any lucky pieces of bodily matter that flew in his general direction more often than not hit him in the face. The African American made a mental note to find a bandanna as soon as he possibly could.

Wallace and Henry alternated once more, keeping up the deadly hail of lead until finally their flashlights revealed no more Infected running their way. They had just burned through the entire local horde.

All three of the men were frozen. They did not move for at least a full minute after the last Infected fell, their minds still processing and accepting the fact that they were still alive and capable of movement.

"Are we—are we still-" Henry started to say, but Charles interrupted him before he could finish his sentence.

"Seeing as we are still on this sewer of a street being forced to listen to each other speak, I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that _yes_, we're still alive," Charles sighed, his eyes flicking up to the heavens briefly. "Wonderful."

"Glad that you're still on board, Charles," Wallace replied in an identical tone of voice as the Bostonian. "Everyone check for bites, then get ready to move."

After all three survivors patted themselves down and peeked under their clothes briefly, they determined that no one had sustained any bites. If they were slated to die in the Infection, it would not happen today.

"Move out!" Wallace hollered, "Sidewinder's not too far from here. Just another half a mile."

The rest of the walk went much more smoothly than the run-in with the horde. The horde that had tried and failed to kill Wallace, Henry, and Charles had pulled Infected from every alley and sidewalk for a good distance, thinning the numbers of ghouls the survivors would later run into. For a brief time there were none left around the area closest to the recent gun battle, all of them wiped out by the survivors' superior weapons.

The Sidewinder was not that far away—the survivors reached it about ten minutes later. Wallace took note of the street signs, which identified the intersection as the corner of 24th and Hewitt. They were definitely in the right place.

Wallace cautiously approached the Irish-style pub, closely flanked by Charles and Henry. The door was unlocked, swinging open when the sergeant prodded it with the barrel of his Mossberg-590. Inside, the tables and chairs were all overturned. Napkins and trash littered the floor.

The bar counter was eerily silent, all of its liquor still in place, waiting for the patrons who would now never come to drink it.

Henry bolted and locked the door behind him as he walked into the pub, taking extra care that no Infected would be able to simply break the door down if they came shuffling past. "Door secure," the older man murmured, turning back an joining his companions at the bar counter.

Wallace was on his hands and knees rifling through one of the cabinets close to the floor. "Seamus always kept it in here—_hello,_" Wallace proclaimed triumphantly, pulling out a smaller, somewhat compact survival radio. An antenna extended up from the top of the device and the hand-crack which would power the radio in the absence of batteries was set into the back.

"_That's_ what we've fought all this way for?" Charles asked, cocking a perturbed eyebrow.

"Yes," Wallace replied, "It has limited transmitting capabilities, it can run on hand-cranked power, and we'll be able to find out where the nearest evac zone is…or if there even _are_ any…"

"Aight, then, let's flip it on," Henry nodded, gesturing to the radio.

Wallace flicked the power switch for the radio and it crackled to life. Its speakers squawked several times, and then dissolved into white noise, getting nothing but static. Wallace began to cycle through the frequencies, trying to find something, anything that could be transmitting.

There were many garbled, choppy transmissions from nameless people scattered throughout the city. Many were babbling aimlessly, others were pleading, screaming for help or their lives. Sometimes Wallace was able to hear their dying screams as their pleas went unanswered. The sergeant quickly flipped past those frequencies before he could make heads and tails of them.

Charles brushed past and pushed his way into the back storage room. Wallace and Henry could hear him rummaging about before the Bostonian gave a surprised exclamation, emerging back into the main room with a bottle of dark-as-midnight brew, capped with a layer of white froth. "This right here is genuine Samichlaus lager; one of the most rare German brews ever to grace this good Earth…how did a lowly pub such as this manage to acquire it?"

"The man who ran this 'lowly pub' was a God, that's how," Wallace retorted. The sergeant made a quick prayer in his mind, hoping that Seamus was alive and well, wherever he was. Odds were that that was not the case. Seamus was probably shuffling around and throwing up green outside, or dead. That was one of the many harsh truths Wallace and company was going to have to face in the days ahead.

"Hold!" Henry's hand shot out and grasped Wallace's, stopping the police sergeant from changing the frequency. A transmission was coming in, and the survivors were able to hear it partway through.

"-_lic safety announcement general broadcast—CEDA is coordinating with the United States and Canadian militaries to establish appropriate evacuation centers along the eastern seaboard. The Infection has spread all along the east coast and is steadily working its way west. Infected have now been spotted in Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. To any and all citizens living west of the Mississippi River, you are advised to proceed west of the Rocky Mountains. Martial law has been declared and-_"

Wallace and Henry listened to the CEDA broadcast intently while Charles eased himself into one of the barstools. The Bostonian popped open the bottle of lager and began to drown his sorrows in the frothy liquid, though he still listened in with mild interest.

According to the broadcast, the epicenter of the Infection had been Fairfield, Pennsylvania; a medium-sized city some distance to the southeast. As of now, the Infection had spread all throughout the Northeast and into Canada. Now, it was beginning to reach the Mississippi River to the west, and as far south as North Carolina. The military had attempted to quarantine it many times, but they were steadily being driven back west. In the west, the Army had already begun establishing a defensive line in the Rocky Mountains, intending to keep the West Coast clear as a safe zone. In the Deep South, the marines and Navy had fortified and designated New Orleans, Pensacola, Panama City, Jacksonville, and Charleston as the evac zones for anyone east of the Mississippi River. Smaller outposts were also being set up all over the countryside to ferry survivors to these evac zones.

"This is great!" Charles exclaimed jovially, prompting startled glances from his two companions. Happiness and elation did not sound natural when they were coming from the Bostonian's mouth. "Really, this is wonderful news! The military is evacuating people in the Deep South; this has got to be the best thing that…oh…wait…" the Bostonian's voice trailed off and the expression of joy, revealed as nothing but a façade, was obliterated from his face, "Oh, wait…those evac zones are in the Deep South," Charles said, speaking slowly like a dull person figuring out an advanced math problem, "…and _we_…are in goddamn middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. _That_ does us a _hell_ of a lot of good," he concluded finally, back to his old sardonic self.

"Charlie's got a point," Henry pointed out, "Never thought I'd ever be agreeing with the bastard, but he's right. What good are those evac zones to us? The government announced that it's going to start bombing cities to contain the Infection…don't know why they're even bothering at this point. How are we supposed to get to the South?"

Wallace hesitated for a moment, and then answered with five simple words: "One state at a time."

* * *

_Deep down, I don't think any of us actually expect to survive. Hope is nonexistent in this place. All we have is a fool's hope at best... There is no evac center in the city, not anymore. The National Guard tried to establish one in the Elba District Park, but the radio says that Elba was completely overrun yesterday. This city has been consumed. We are alone. Charles, Henry, and I...all of us know the odds stacked against us; we are not simple-minded. I do not continue to fight because we have any meager prospects for survival or salvation. If I'm going to die--and I know that I probably will--then I'm damn well gonna make sure that I take as many of those bastards with me before I walk through the Pearly Gates. If Saint Peter doesn't want to let me through because of that, then he's welcome to kiss my black ass. I've earned it._

**_J. W.

* * *

_**

**_Author's Note_**

_First thing's first; I sincerely apologize for taking so long to get this chapter up. I was juggling stories before, and it just wasn't working out. But, here's the silver lining, in the month I haven't been writing this story, I finally finished my Halo story (all seventy goddamn chapters of it). Because my Halo story is complete, I can now focus my energy solely on this story. Unless I come down with a bad case of writer's block, there will be no more month-long hiatuses._

_Enjoy!_

_-TheAmateur_


	8. Chapter 7: Alcoholism Saves a Life

Chapter Seven: Alcoholism Saves a Life

Wallace hesitated for a moment, and then answered with five simple words: "One state at a time."

"Uh-huh…" Charles nodded slowly, "If this were a movie, those would have been pretty adequate closing words, but sadly this is _not_ a movie. Tough break. The old man's question still stands. How are we supposed to get to the South?"

"We'll go to Charleston; it's the closest," Wallace stated firmly, "We'll acquire a vehicle along the way, or we'll walk the whole distance. Either way, we're definitely going to die if we stay here. That is inevitable."

Henry opened his mouth to say something, but before the words came out he was interrupted by a loud clamor from the second floor. A series of audible thuds could be heard as something upstairs began to move about.

Instinctively, all three survivors drew their weapons and, before they knew they were even doing it, aimed them at the ceiling, standing frozen for several seconds.

"Charles, watch my back," Wallace ordered the Bostonian as he edged into the backroom, "We have some uninvited company…"

For once, Charles did not complain or even give a disgruntled sigh. He cocked his P220 and fell in step with Wallace without another word. He did not want Infected in this place any more than Wallace did. Getting rid of potential unfriendlies was something he did not desire to hinder.

Wallace, for his own part, gave satisfied grunt that was quiet enough to almost be a thought. Charles, for all his flaws, was still able to follow reasonable orders. It made sense, when the sergeant thought about it. The Bostonian was a businessman; survival was embedded in his bones. He would complain, sure, but deep down he would do his utmost to ensure that he survived.

At the same time, that was a problem. Charles worried for his own survival, but Wallace suspected that he would not hesitate to sacrifice his companions to save himself if the need ever arose. That was the dark side of every successful businessman; while the Bostonian had very good self-preservation instincts, he was not above slitting throats and stabbing backs to come out on top. Hopefully he would change, if only enough to value being part of a larger team. If he did not…that would lead to more problems in the future.

Wallace stole through the backroom and pushed open a small wooden door set off in a corner, revealing a small, compact staircase that led up to the second floor, where Seamus used to live. Wallace crept up the steps, making sure Charles was right behind him, which he was. The police sergeant emerged into the upstairs hallway.

All of the doors were dark, save the one at the end of the short corridor. As Wallace stepped forward, his mind briefly flashed back to the townhouse earlier in the week, the place where he had encountered his first Infected during a routine burglary check—the woman lying on the ground, her entrails tossed all over the walls and ceiling; her husband crouched over her, chewing, tearing—

Wallace shook his head, dispelling those thoughts. He had not known the magnitude of the threat the Infection had represented when he had encountered that first Infected. He had not even known what the Infected were, nor had he known just how close he had come to becoming one of them.

The African American silently slid down the corridor, tightening his grip on his Mossberg. When he reached the door with the dim light peeking out from around the cracks, he gestured for Charles to take up a supporting position behind him.

More thudding sounds came from within, accompanied by what sounded like low growling.

Wallace closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath and calming down. He opened his eyes and mentally counted to three, taking a few steps back.

When he reached three, Wallace let out a yell and sprinted at the door, planting a firm kick right in the center. The door flew open, banging against the wall inside. Wallace leaped into the room, Mossberg at the ready. His mind quickly took in everything inside the room—the single-person bed to the left, the walk-in closet straight ahead, the green rug on the floor, the ceiling fan and lights up above. Last, he looked at the cabinets next to the dresser and saw a disheveled older man crouched over the open bottom drawer, rummaging around inside.

The man whipped around in reaction to the door being kicked in, giving a surprised shout and falling onto his back, throwing his arms up over his face, shouting, "Mary Mother o' Jehosafuck, don' shoot me!"

The man's shout registered in Wallace's mind and the sergeant's index finger automatically slackened, falling off of the trigger. This man was not infected. Infected growled and moaned; they did not shout obscenities.

Wallace let his shotgun drop as he regarded the man on the floor. The man was a shorter person—older, probably in his late forties or early fifties. He was dressed in a grubby flannel shirt with loose-hanging long sleeves and oily jeans. His clothes were covered in beer stains and tobacco ash. He had a creased tan face with a bristly gray beard that covered the lower half of his face.

Wallace knew this man. After all, the sergeant had seen him in this place every time he and Carson had visited the Sidewinder. "Ted?!" Wallace exclaimed, gazing down at the local drunk, "Is that you?"

"Who wants to know?" the bearded man grunted, his voice low and gravelly, toned with an almost stereotypical Appalachian hillbilly accent. Now that he could see that the intruder was not going to kill him, he braced himself against the cabinets and picked himself up off the floor, standing up to his full height of around 5'5. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light of the room he was in, which he had not looked into for a while. Gradually, the shape and features of the black man in the police uniform came into focus. "Well fuck me twice an' call me daddy…you're still alive, Sarge?"

Wallace nodded. Yep, that was definitely Ted, the local drunk who pretty much lived in the Sidewinder when he wasn't off working in the coalmines to the northwest. He was one of the last people Wallace would have expected to see alive…but as the sergeant really thought about it he wasn't surprised. He would probably have wagered that Ted didn't even know what had been going on outside for the past week; the coalminer had always been in his own little dimension.

"Last I checked," Wallace muttered, slinging his shotgun, now unneeded, back over his shoulder.

Charles chose that moment to follow Wallace into the room. He took one look at Ted and wrinkled his nose, smelling the local drunk from the hallway. He glanced at Wallace, and then back at the coalminer. "You…you _know_ this degenerate?" the Bostonian asked, surprise prevalent in his voice.

"You could say that," Wallace replied, "I've visited this bar a lot for the past decade, and Ted's been here nearly every time. Charles, I'd like you to meet Ted. Ted, Charles."

"How ya doin'?" Ted took a step forward, extending a grubby hand to the Bostonian.

Charles took an equidistant step back, his face contorting in disgust, regarding the extended hand as if it were hazardous biological waste. "Not until HAZMAT comes in and detoxifies you," the Bostonian declared, turning on his heel and heading back down the hallway, vanishing down the stairs.

"Nice chap," Ted remarked.

"That actually _was_ a somewhat nice moment from him," Wallace chuckled. "Come on, let's get you downstairs. How long have you been up here?"

"No idea," Ted admitted. "Probably a few days…I passed out sometime after your last visit, an' Seamus carried me upstairs. Not the first time he's done that, God bless him. Anywho, I woke up maybe ten minutes ago…"

"Are you sober?" Wallace asked as he stepped out into the hallway.

"More or less…" Ted murmured, putting a hand to his temple as a fresh lance of pain shot out from his skull, "Think I've got the Hangover to end all Hangovers, though…"

Wallace led Ted downstairs, through the backroom, and out into the main room behind the bar counter. The bearded man immediately crossed over to the tap and pulled over a glass, holding it under the nozzle and pulling the lever, letting out something that sounded something like a groan of relief as the brown liquid gushed into his glass.

Ted brought the glass to his lips and took a sip, but his face contorted as he tasted the brew and he spat it halfway across the room, emptying the remaining liquid into the sink. "The fuck?" he muttered, "It's stagnant… Jesus, how long have I been out? Actually, you know what, don't answer that yet, I'll be back in a sec; Seamus had some cold pizza in his fridge and I'm starving like the devil…haven't had anything to eat since I passed out."

As Ted ducked back into the backroom, Henry cocked an eyebrow in passive judgment of the bearded man. Though he did not say anything, Wallace already knew what he was going to ask.

"Yes, he's had some drinking problems in the past," Wallace said, taking a seat next to the older man, "But he's a coalminer; he'll be able to hold his own out here."

"If he can determine which way is up, then yes, he may have some slight inkling of a chance," Charles muttered. "And building on that, just what exactly are _we_ going to do? We've got the radio now, and we've now learned that there is no evac station in this city. We're in the middle of a sea of Infected with no way of escaping."

"Infected?" Ted grunted inquiringly. He emerged from the backroom, holding a plate containing three slices of cold pizza. The coalminer began to tear ravenously into the first slice. "Who's infected?" he asked between bites.

Charles was stunned. "Is he joking?"

"Ted…" Wallace began, "My last visit here was over a week ago; there's no way in hell you've been out that long."

"Well, you're right," the alcoholic coalminer admitted, giving a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, "I haven't been _out_ out for over a week, but my head was in the clouds for most of it…I jus' remember something on the TV about flu or some other shit—the rest is all blurry."

"I thought I'd seen it all," Charles remarked. "I honestly thought I had, but this—_this_ takes the cake; a man so wasted that he doesn't even know that the world is ending all around him. That really takes the cake. Actually, it probably takes the whole bakery that the cake was in."

The Bostonian gave another disbelieving sigh, then settled for a shrug and took another sip from his lager.

"The hell's Mr. Massachusetts rambling on about?" Ted grunted, finishing up the crust of his first slice of pizza and starting to devour his second.

"The infection you heard about on TV? Yeah, turns out it was some kind of…contagious mutagen or virus…it infects people and turns them into mindless beasts, animals that think only of blood and their next meal," Henry explained, choosing the best words to explain the inherent collapse of civilization in a single sentence.

Ted gave another grunt, and then threw back his head and started to laugh uproariously. He went on for at least a minute, his chest and shoulders heaving and tears beginning to stream from his eyes. "The one time I'm actually sober enough to walk from one room to the next 'thout gettin' any bruises or fallin' over m' own feet, I start hearin' shit that's even crazier than the shit I hear when I'm on the sauce. If _that_ ain't irony, gents, then enlighten me; what the hell is?"

"Just look outside and see for yourself," the Bostonian businessman said, gesturing to the windows next to the sealed entrance door. When Ted agreed to do so and rose from his stool and began to make his way through the tables and chairs towards the entrance, Charles quickly added, "The sight may be somewhat shocking and/or overwhelming, to give you fair warning. If you end up defecating your pants in total fear at the sight, I am going to personally kick you outside, so please try and control your bowels."

"Right…" Ted murmured as he approached the windows, "I understood about half of that. Now what in hell would you consider…_oh_…" the bearded man's voice quieted to a whisper as he got his first look at the Hell of the Infection outside. He saw Infected staggering all over the street outside, sitting on the sidewalks, throwing up strange green bile all over the place. Some even fought with each other, brutally clubbing each other over the head and in the torso. All of the creatures were giving off low, raspy moans. These were just the Infected illuminated by the few remaining streetlights that Ted could see. There were many more hidden in the inky darkness of the night.

Ted was in shock at the sight. For a brief moment, his bowels actually felt loose, but then Charles's words came echoing back to him and he held his business in. "_Holy shit_…what…who…how…?"

Wallace placed a hand on Ted's shoulder, giving it an encouraging clap. "You're still alive, Ted. You have no idea how lucky you are to be alive right now."

"Lucky?" Ted echoed, "Lucky? You call surviving to be able to see _this_-" the coalminer gesticulated at the scene outside the windows- "lucky?"

"Mm-hm," Wallace grunted in reply. "Lucky because you're not one of them."

"So let me straighten this out," Ted cleared his throat, making his way back to his stool. He glanced at his last slice of pizza, considered eating it for a second, and then pushed it away. He looked up, meeting the gazes of his three newfound companions. "Every single person in this whole damn city is dead? That's what you're saying?"

"Might as well be," Henry nodded. "Only a few handfuls of people left here, and most won't last much longer. The officer and I, we used to be with a group of nearly thirty people who survived the outbreak at General Hospital…of that group, we're the only two left. We can't stay in any one place for too long…sooner or later, the Infection will find you."

Ted did not laugh this time. He didn't even grunt. Instead, he ducked into the backroom and rummaged around for a few minutes, coming back out with a bottle of lager. He popped off the cap and took a long draught, closing his eyes in relief as the liquor slid down his throat. "If I'm gonna survive this, this'll probably be my last drink for a while…shame; this is mighty good brew… If there's anything in this world that I'll miss the most, it'll be this..."

"Sidetracking from a productive debate about alcohol, no one has yet answered my question from before," Charles interrupted, his patience wearing thin, "How are _we_ supposed to get out of this city? There are no more evac stations, no more means of aerial extraction, all of the tunnels are no doubt brimming with Infected, and all of the roads out have been blocked or destroyed. This somewhat limits our options."

Wallace gave a low grunt and rose from his stool, circling around the bar counter to the drawer where he had pulled the survival radio from. He sifted through its contents for a second before pulling out a small square of paper. He unfolded it and spread it out flat on the bar countertop, revealing a map of the state of Pennsylvania.

"We're gonna have to look at the bigger picture as well," Wallace reminded his companions. "From what the radio's been saying, Philadelphia was overrun twelve hours ago. However, a small contingent of national guardsmen have been holding out _here_…" Wallace tapped his finger onto Pittsburgh several times. "In Pittsburgh, it's very possible that we'll be able to find some method of evacuation into the South. We'll have to move fast, though; those forces aren't going to be able to hold out in Pittsburgh forever."

"Well, that's all well and good, sure," Charles acquiesced, giving a small shrug and taking another small draught of lager before continuing, "But you have to crawl before you can sprint. The possible evacuation in Pittsburgh may as well be on the Moon; we still have absolutely no way of _getting_ there."

"False: there is still a way that you have failed to mention," Wallace countered. When Charles did not reply, the police sergeant went on. He leaned over the map and pointed at a city in the far northwest of Pennsylvania, not too far off from Erie. "This is us," he murmured. After pointing out the city, he then trailed a finger down a solid blue line that ran down from New York through western Pennsylvania, eventually reaching the city of Pittsburgh, where it joined another blue line. "This is the Alleghany River," Wallace said, gesturing to the blue line on the map, "This is the river that runs through the docking and shipping sector near downtown—it grows larger as it runs south. It runs down through most of PA and it eventually hits Pittsburgh, where it flows into the Monongahela River. Pittsburgh is built around this 'intersection'."

"You're saying that the river is our way out of this city?" Charles asked. He was leaning forward now, his interest piqued.

"I'm saying exactly that," Wallace confirmed, "Think about it. You can't block up a river with a traffic jam, nor can it be infested with Infected. If we could acquire a boat on the river, we would be home free. We could stay on the Alleghany all the way down into Pittsburgh--our own personal highway."

"Interesting…" Charles murmured, deep in thought, "_Interesting_…"

"We should all rest up," Wallace suggested, "Tomorrow morning, we're moving out. We'll stock up on any supplies we can find—we should also see if Seamus had any rucksacks here, or at least something similar; right now, we only have our hands to carry stuff with. We need backpacks, rucksacks, messenger bags—anything along those lines. Once we're good to go, we'll get going. The docks are probably a day's walk away, especially if we have to get through the downtown area."

"Do you think this can be done?" Henry asked next, absentmindedly stroking his chin stubble with a finger, contemplating every facet of Wallace's suggestion.

"Well, we're about to find out, aren't we?" Ted chuckled.

* * *

_Henry drives a good question, one that we haven't really asked ourselves all that much: "Can it be done?" Well, in my humble opinion, the answer to that is simple. Did I think we would be able to survive the General Hospital outbreak, get out of that foodstore alive, and fight off every horde that we've encountered on our way to get here? No, of course I didn't. Do I think we're going to be able to escape this city on the river without getting ourselves killed? Again; no, I don't. That being said…it can probably be done. We'll just have to wait and see._

_**J. W.**_


	9. Chapter 8: In Dire Streets

Chapter Eight: In Dire Streets

Sergeant Jerome Wallace grinned inwardly as the sun began to rise, feeling the comforting rays warming the back of his neck as he picked his way through a mountain of debris blocking the road.

The debris had been from a building that had collapsed, most likely due to the thermobaric hammerdown the city had received right after the hospital outbreaks. If any of the nearby buildings' supporting foundations were outdated, old, or simply weak, the shockwave from the military airstrike would have knocked the whole structure down.

The General Hospital area was not the only place the Air Force had slammed; the survivors were beginning to stumble upon more wrecked sections of the city as they headed downtown.

Wallace adjusted the strap of the shoulder bag that he had taken from the Sidewinder. The bag had so far come in real handy. Wallace had dropped all of his ammunition into it, which freed up his pockets a ton. He had also slid the radio into his belt, next to his nightstick. His P220 was no longer on his hip, though; the sergeant had given the weapon to Ted, who had been unarmed.

Ted experimentally ejected a clip and slid it back in, getting a feel for the sidearm. He had almost never fired a gun in his lifetime, but Wallace had shown him how to use the P220. So far, he was getting the hang of it pretty well.

"We're going to have to find a gun store somewhere along the way," Henry spoke up as the survivors navigated their way through the wreckage of the building that had been blocking the street. "Our ammo is starting to get pretty low, and—_shit_ -"

On the other side of the mountain of debris was a sizeable group of Infected. Some were shuffling aimlessly about the sidewalks; others were on their knees, feeding on human and animal corpses in the middle of the street. At first they didn't notice the four survivors, but as soon as the first gunshot rang out their attention was captured.

Charles had fired the first shot, striking the nearest Infected—a disheveled, one-armed woman—in the chest. The Infected staggered, blood spurting out of the bullet wound, but it kept right on coming, reaching its arms out towards the Bostonian, a guttural rasp emerging from its throat.

"Too low, my apologies," Charles murmured, taking aim and firing again, striking the Infected in the left eye. The ghoul stopped growling and fell where it stood, lying motionless in a growing pool of blood.

Wallace and Henry unshouldered their Mossbergs, flicking off the safeties and opening fire, blowing away the nearest Infected before they had a chance to charge.

The four survivors formed a compact line at the top of the debris hill. "Try and conserve your ammo!" Wallace called out, "Aim only for the ones that reach the base of the mound; no need to start overshooting yourself! Call out 'reloading' when you run dry and we'll cover you!"

The heavy gunfire echoed off of the walls and windows of the surrounding buildings on the street, attracting any Infected who were within earshot of the battle.

Wallace pumped shell after shell into the Infected, watching as they struggled and tried to climb up the rubble mound even as they lost limbs and large chunks of their body. The two or three that actually reached the top collapsed before they could take a swipe at the four survivors, and by the time they got that far they barely even resembled human beings.

Wallace had watched a lot of TV when he was young. He had particularly liked World War II movies, and now he found himself wondering if this was what the US marines fighting in the Pacific had felt like—fighting an enemy that did not know fear, an enemy that would just keep on coming and coming, no matter how much you tried to stop it.

The Infected could not feel anything except primal instincts, bloodlust, and hunger. They would never fear the survivors, nor would they would ever stop attacking the survivors until they met their deaths. Not for the first time, Wallace began to wonder how on Earth he would be able to fight down the length of an entire country through an ocean of these mindless beasts with nothing except his Mossberg. It defied logic, it defied reason.

Wallace shook his head again, forcing himself to think of the matters at hand. Thinking too far ahead would be detrimental to his mental health. "Reloading!" the sergeant exclaimed, reaching into his shoulderbag and pulling out a group of shells, slotting them into the Mossberg's inner magazine.

Now fully loaded, Wallace resumed firing his Mossberg just as Henry began reloading his, ensuring that there was a constant stream of lead tearing into the horde trying to climb the rubble mound.

Not a single Infected reached the survivors. Wallace never needed to use his nightstick in close quarters combat; all of the Infected that had charged the survivors had been taken down before they made it anymore than three quarters of the way up the hill, with only two or three exceptions.

"Clear!" Wallace confirmed after sweeping his gaze up and down the street and determining that there were no more Infected trying to join in the frenzy. "Keep your weapons out; I have a feeling we haven't seen the last of the bastards on this road."

"I was just starting to miss them," Charles muttered. The Bostonian reached into an inner pocket in his white suit jacket and pulled out a somewhat sullied handkerchief, using it to mop a speck of blood from his brow.

The street returned to its former state of silence, though now slightly more devoid of life—even the sick, twisted form of life that the Infected represented. A light breeze began to blow through the area, agitating the rubbish and garbage strewn all over the sidewalks and the asphalt. It also served to curb the heat from hot August sun that was starting to beat down on the city.

Sergeant Wallace took a moment to bask in the breeze before straightening up, rolling his shoulders to ease out the kinks, and proceeding down to the bottom of the mound of rubble.

Henry had been right; ammo was getting uncomfortably low. Wallace had noted when he was reloading that he had only a painfully small amount of shells left for his Mossberg. He would not have enough to last through another full-scale chain-swarm. If another decided to attack anytime in the immediate to near future, he would have to revert to his nightstick.

"There's bound to be a gun store somewhere between here and downtown," Wallace said, speculating and hoping more than anything else. "There're enough gun shops in this city to walk from the marina to the southeast projects to the Strip up north without hitting asphalt; there's _got_ to be something nearby."

"Well, we're never going to find out by remaining here until Judgment Day, so shall we get a move on?" Charles suggested, his tone as friendly as it always was.

For once, no one could really argue with the Bostonian. There was a series of metallic, mechanical clicks as everyone made sure their weapons were fully loaded and ready. The survivors, now satisfied that they were as ready as possible for their next encounter with the Infected, moved out, heading further on down the road.

"So…perhaps this is a bad time to bring this up, but what guarantee do we have of finding a boat at the docks?" Charles asked when he decided to finally speak up after a short while, "Wouldn't the river have been one of the _first_ places panicked individuals would have flocked to? After, of course, they realized that leaving by car or helicopter was an utterly lost cause?"

"Guarantee?" Wallace chuckled. "What's a guarantee again? Civilization isn't the only thing that's collapsed around our ears; these mysterious 'guarantees' went right along with it."

"How are we to survive, then, if all we are capable of doing is-"

"Take a walk, gentlemen," Wallace nodded to Henry and Ted, who both reciprocated with a quick wave and quickened their pace, leaving Wallace somewhat alone with the Bostonian towards the rear. Wallace turned to Charles and whispered, "You're coming dangerously close to crippling morale, Charlie."

Charles made a flustered sound deep in his throat, opening his mouth to retort.

Wallace cut the Bostonian off before he even got a chance to speak. "You're right; we do not have a guarantee of finding a boat at the docks. Odds are that we're gonna reach the docks and find 'em all empty, or maybe even burnt to the ground. And you know what we'll do then? We'll find another goddamn way, or we'll give up and die."

"But what other way _is_ there?" Charles persisted.

Wallace's smile was mirthless and faint. "None," the sergeant replied matter-of-factly, pausing to step over the remains of a human torso on the asphalt that had been nibbled down to its bare ribcage, "What you have to understand is that to survive out here, we are going to have to _want_ to survive. If we start getting all hopeless and depressed, we're dead. Simple as that. What you have to do to avoid that is keep on moving, keep your companions' minds from dwelling on the Infection for too long. You need to give your companions and yourself a goal. You always have to have a goal, an objective to be fulfilled, something to be working towards. Before, it was reaching the Sidewinder to find the radio. Now, it's reaching the docks. Next it will be reaching the National Guard remnants at Pittsburgh, and ultimately it will be getting our asses to Charleston so we can be evac-ed."

Charles was silent. Wallace knew that if the Bostonian had ceased to argue and retort, he had understood and, to some degree, agreed. His silence was enough of an answer.

"If you want to live, and I think you do," Wallace continued, "Then you're going to need our help. And if you demoralize your help—us—so much that they—we—no longer want to go on, then you're pretty well fucked. Get the picture?"

"Never thought of it that way…" Charles murmured. The Bostonian was silent for another few seconds before he shook his head, slipping back into his usual prickly persona. "I'll consider what you have said."

"You don't have to stop being a jackass—I know that would cause what's left of your soul to boil and disintegrate—but just tone it down a _little_ bit," Wallace concluded, closing the conversation and rejoining Henry and Ted up front, leaving Charles to ponder.

The foursome continued walking down the streets. Occasionally, Wallace would lead them through an alleyway to another road if the street they were on was blocked. Any which way, the survivors kept on heading south. Gradually, the hazy skyline of skyscrapers and high-rises that formed the downtown business sector grew larger and larger until they filled the sky to the south.

The survivors made small-talk with each other as they went, with the exception of Charles, who spoke very little. After talking with Henry and Ted, Wallace learned that Henry had actually been the assistant manager of the foodstore near General Hospital that the sergeant had taken refuge in. Apparently, he had also fought during the tail-end of 'Nam; seeing little actual combat by that point in the war, but also being a part of one of the last units of marines to evacuate the country before the Fall of Saigon. When pressed, however, he refused to talk about his experiences.

"And what about you, smartass?" Henry said to Charles, "What did you do before this whole shitstorm came down on our heads?"

Charles shrugged. "What did I do? What does it matter what I did; it's not as if I'm going to be pursuing my work any further."

"Were you ever in the military?" Henry pressed, "You know your guns inside and out, and you know how to shoot them better than most people I know. I know a military man when I see one. Where'd you serve?"

"You ask too many questions, old man," Charles rebuffed Henry, pretty much ending the discussion then and there. "My business is just that; _my_ business. Not yours."

"Aight, have it your way," Henry shrugged, abandoning that particular path of conversation.

"Frag shop!" the sudden cry had come from Ted, who had drifted farther up ahead from the rest of the group. He was pointing and gesticulating towards a store near the corner of the next intersection. Sure enough, a faded sign reading '**Andy's Guns**' was clearly visible above the entrance.

"Alright, we'll see what's in there," Wallace affirmed, "Check the place before you go rushing in; there may be unwanted company inside."

Ted grunted in the affirmative, walking up to the entrance. He grabbed the handle and pulled, but the door did not move. Ted mumbled something under his breath and pulled again, harder this time. No matter how hard the coalminer yanked at the handle, however, the door remained stubbornly closed.

"Locked," Henry stated.

"How observant of you," Charles interjected, "I thought there was an invisible man holding it closed on the other side."

Ted grunted again, stepping back and picking up a brick from a pile of rubble on the sidewalk nearby. "Not if I can help it," the alcoholic coalminer said. He tossed the brick up into the air, caught it, then hurled it with all his strength into the display window.

Wallace shouted, "_NO!_" to the coalminer, but he was too late; the brick had already smashed through the glass before the exclamation was fully off Wallace's tongue.

The reason for Sergeant Wallace's alarm became painfully apparent in the form of a wailing burglary alarm, designed to go off if a window was broken or a door kicked in while the staff was away. In this case, the staff _was_ away permanently, rendering the alarm active. Normally this would not have bothered the survivors, as there was no longer any law in this part of the continent, and no one would come to take care of the break-in. However, the alarm was high-pitched, and the Infected were drawn to noises such as that like moths to halogen lights.

The distant, collective, growling roar of a horde rose up in several directions as the Infected heard the burglary alarm.

Trouble was on the way.

"You stupid, worthless, drunken piece of excrement; now look what you've done!" Charles was screaming, "I am _not_ going to die here because of a social degenerate's lack of brain cells, and certainly not because of-"

"Shut up and get inside!" Henry interrupted the Bostonian's frenzied rant, grabbing Charles by the shoulder and hauling him inside the gun shop through the shattered window. The fragments of glass littering the floor crunched under the shoes and boots of the survivors as they rushed inside.

"We're about to get a fuckload of company!" Wallace thundered, vaulting over the store counter in the back of the shop where the ammunition was stored, "Gear up and get ready! We got one helluva load of guns in here; use 'em!"

As Wallace found and tore into several boxes containing shells for his Mossberg, Ted and Charles both holstered their P220s and headed for the display cases of firearms, rather than grabbing the stocked guns in the backroom. That would have taken too long, and time was a luxury the survivors no longer had.

Charles eyed a semi-automatic AR-15 assault rifle with automatic capability in one of the display cases. He smashed the glass pane with his elbow and pulled the rifle off of its pedestal. "Been a while since I've held a gun like this…" the Bostonian murmured, but as he ran his hands down the length of the weapon, the familiar contours and feelings of an assault rifle quickly came back to him.

As Charles hurried back to find ammunition for his new weapon, Ted continued searching for a gun he could use. There were plenty of assault rifles, hunting rifles, and pistols laying around, but Ted had never fired a gun in his life, with the exception of the two or three times he had visited a firing range when he had been a teen. Many of the weapons the gun store had in stock were too complicated for him to wrap his mind around.

Wallace, who had finished slotting a new batch of shells into his Mossberg, noticed Ted's indecision. He swept his gaze over the display cases and quickly spotted a weapon that Ted would be able to use without too much difficulty. It was a small, compact TDI Vector submachine gun. It was around two feet long and was capable of holding a thirty-round clip, but most importantly it would be able to hold the same staple ammo that the AR-15 could fire—that meant that when searching for ammunition in the future, the survivors would not have to look for two different kinds of rounds.

That is, if they still _had_ a future. Making assumptions that implied that the survivors would be around the next day were very prone to error.

Wallace found the appropriate ammunition for the AR-15 and directed Charles to it. While the Bostonian stocked up, Wallace grabbed a handful of clips and tossed them to Ted, who actually managed to catch the whole handful in one fist. The black sergeant shouted over to Ted how to load a magazine of ammunition into the weapon and how to cock it.

"This is the lighting round, Ted!" Wallace finished as he watched Ted load the TDI, "Learn fast or die!"

The first Infected reached the window at that moment and started to leap through, but Henry had already been waiting for it, his Mossberg fully loaded with the shells Wallace had tossed to him half a minute ago. The old man fired, blasting a shell into the Infected's chest, wreaking havoc with its inner organs.

The Infected was thrown back into two of its fellows, thrashing on the sidewalk in its death throes as its lifeblood was pumped out of the hole in its torso.

Henry's Mossberg roared again, taking out a pair of Infected who tried to gain entry, one behind the other. The shell's blast tore through the first and took out the one behind it, sending both ghouls to Hades.

A harsh thumping, cracking noise came from the backroom, prompting Wallace to spin around to investigate. What he saw made his stomach do a brief flip-flop. The backdoor was half gone, in the process of being torn down by a group of Infected outside.

Wallace gave the rest of the gun shop a quick once-over, his tactician's mind rapidly assessing the situation. Infected were starting to stream in through the window. Very soon, Henry would have to reload and the others would have to cover him, but that would leave the back door open. Wallace himself would have to hold it down…but then who would cover him when _he_ was reloading? He would need to pull Ted or Charles and divide the group—one half defending the front of the store, the other defending the back-

_No,_ Wallace shook his head. Infected were also breaking down the front entrance as well, giving them not one, but _two_ ways into the front of the store. Dividing the four survivors would leave only two men to cover two breaches, which would be impossible.

That left only one option—falling back to an area where the Infected could only enter in two directions, not three. The police sergeant processed all of this in two or three seconds. "Everyone fall back to the backroom!" the African-American bellowed, gesturing for his three companions to join him.

Henry, after firing his last shell, stood up and obeyed, hurrying back behind the store counter, through the door, and into the backroom. Charles and Ted were hot on his heels. Wallace was the last to enter the backroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He pushed through his fellow survivors and leveled his shotgun at the back door, which was now hanging only by a single hinge.

Henry reached into his shoulderbag and started to reload his shotgun, calmly and methodically sliding each shell into the inner magazine.

The back door finally caved, submitting to the efforts of the Infected who were so totally committed to its destruction. The Infected immediately surged in through the doorway, arms raised, jaws agape, saliva and bile dribbling down their chins. They sensed another meal in this room, and they had no intentions of allowing it to escape.

Luckily for the Infected, the survivors _also_ had no intentions of escaping. _Unluckily_ for the Infected, however, they also had no intentions of being eaten. For what it was worth, that put the two parties at an impasse. Fortunately, guns were able to break that stalemate. The eternal question was whether the stalemate was more powerful than the guns. If it was, then it was no longer a stalemate and the survivors became dinner. If it wasn't, then the survivors lived to encounter the very same stalemate another day.

Wallace loosed a shot into the first Infected to enter the room, throwing it back into its comrades. While this delayed the Infected nearest to the door for a few moments, the momentum of the horde behind the fallen ones propelled the nearest Infected forward.

Wallace emptied his Mossberg into the wave of Infected, effectively keeping them bottled up in the doorway. More ear-ringing _bangs_ cracked out from behind as Henry opened fire at the Infected trying to break down the door leading back into the gun shop.

"Reloading!" Wallace called out, kneeling down and grabbing the shells from his shoulderbag.

Charles stepped in, pushing the bolt of the AR-15 forward and flicking off the safety. As the Infected began to swarm through the breach, the Bostonian opened fire. He pulled the trigger and a single shot rang out, catching an Infected in the shoulder, making it stumble and taking off its arm, but not stopping it. Charles fired again, this time hitting the ghoul in the neck. The Infected fell.

As more Infected started to swarm through the door after the forerunner Charles had just taken down, the Bostonian flicked the assault rifle's setting from semi-automatic to full automatic. He opened fire once more, his face expressionless as the muzzle flashes cast shadows across it.

The spray of lead caught the charging Infected dead-on, sending them sprawling to the ground. Not all of the Infected hit by Charles's fire were instantly killed, but many were. Those that weren't were either mortally wounded. The select few that actually survived getting hit did not make it far before Charles shot them again.

Charles did not unleash an endless spray of gunfire; he fired in short, controlled bursts. He aimed at the individual Infected in the front of the horde and fired a burst. The Infected would be killed instantly, as would the ghouls immediately behind it, depending on the length of the burst.

A new, high-speed clatter, smoother than the AR-15, filled the room as Ted opened up on the other half of the horde coming through the gun shop door with his TDI.

Charles's rifle clacked empty. The Bostonian called out "Reloading!" as he pulled the bolt back and ejected the empty magazine. As he slotted a new one in, Wallace racked the pump of his Mossberg and kept up the fire.

The black sergeant loosed all ten shells in his shotgun's magazine into the Infected still trying to gain entry. When his Mossberg ran dry, he called out his status and set about reloading while Charles resumed fire with his AR-15. This cycle repeated three or four times, and the pile of corpses lining the door and its approach began to grow and grow until finally there were no more Infected left outside.

When Wallace called out "Clear!" Charles turned on his heel and redirected his fire into the other door, tearing through the Infected that were beginning to edge past Ted's line of fire. "Don't go fully auto on the bastards!" the Bostonian shouted to the coalminer, "Fire in shorter, aimed, sustained bursts! You'll run dry and get killed faster than you can down a martini if you don't do that! Faster than you could down a dozen, in your case…"

There had been more Infected trying to gain entry through the gun shop door, and even more were still loping in through the shattered window and the now broken down front door, but they were stragglers. Afterthoughts, basically.

The wailing alarm had ceased. Wallace noticed the absence of the high-pitched ringing as he looked up from the ironsights of his Mossberg, the backdoor now clear of Infected. Its power source must have gotten shot sometime during the firefight. Wallace had no idea how or who had landed the lucky shot, but he did not care. No more Infected would be visiting them due to the alarm.

Charles finished off the last few Infected with the final vestiges of the magazine now in his rifle. When the last Infected went down, the Bostonian still had one round left. Charles stood up and pushed his way through the door, stepping over the bodies that had piled up just outside. He approached the body of the last ghoul he had killed. It had looked different from most of the others, though Charles had only had a split-second to see it before he took it down. Upon closer examination, the reason why it had looked different became apparent. It had been a seven or eight year old girl. Its face was grimy and smeared with blood and bile. The mixture of red and green had formed a grotesque brownish hue. The corpse barely resembled the person it had once been.

Charles felt a brief pang of uncertainty at having killed a child. Actually looking into the former girl's face and seeing what he had just killed stirred some emotion deep inside him. Charles recognized that feeling and quickly banished it. If he was to survive, he was going to have to endure a lot more than this. He aimed his rifle and fired the last shot, obliterating the Infected's head.

Now it was anonymous.

"All clear!" Wallace reported as Charles ejected the empty mag and slotted a replacement in. "Everyone check for bites!"

The survivors all peeked under their shirts and felt up and down the legs, searching for anything that resembled a bite from an Infected. Everyone came up clean. The Infection would not claim them just yet.

"Ted, Charles; there are rucksacks in the front of the shop," Wallace said, gesturing towards the entrance and shattered window, "Grab them and load up on any staple ammo you can find. Make sure any ammo you load up is of the same caliber; I want as many guns we have as possible shooting the same shit so that we don't have to worry about finding certain types of ammo for 'em all in the future. That also means avoid taking any weapons that require a single type of ammunition. When it runs dry, then it's useless for any task except being a bludgeon."

The survivors quickly set about gearing up. Charles and Ted kept their P220s when Wallace declined to reclaim them. Henry also found a Bowie hunting knife in a drawer under the counter, presumably belonging to one of the owners. Well, if that were the case, the owner would not need it any longer, even if he was still alive somewhere.

Wallace slid a new pistol—an M9—into his sidearm holster, dropping a handful of extra clips for the weapon into a separate pocket of his shoulderbag. Finally, he was ready. He glanced at his companions and was satisfied that they were ready as well. "Let's move out," the police sergeant said, ducking through the shattered window and back out into the streets.

Henry and Ted followed suit, but Charles lingered for a brief moment before leaving. Wallace's forehead contorted in a slight frown as he noticed the Bostonian's odd lapse of his usual smooth movement. "Something wrong, Charles?"

Charles cast a final glance at the headless body of the child Infected he had killed only minutes ago before snapping back into his normal routine. "Odd choice of words, seeing as we're in the middle of the end of the world."

* * *

_Besides the swarm Carson and I got caught in during the Code Orange at General Hospital, this was the largest horde we've encountered yet. Hell of a day so far. Every time I have a moment of peace and quiet in between encounters with the Bastards, I keep on thinking about what I told Charles. I was right, of course; this little group of mine will only keep on going if it _wants_ to keep on going. _Leading_ that group is doubly hard. If I end up giving my companions false hope or hollow encouragements—and that's mostly what I have been doing since I met them—there's still always going to be one person who knows the truth, who knows how truly hopeless our situation is. Me._

_I saw Charles kill that kid earlier. I'm actually surprised at how much that put him on edge. Killing a child really affected him in some way… Part of me is surprised. The man actually has a soul somewhere in that suit of his. I get what he's feeling, though. It's not necessarily remorse or sorrow; it's the fact that, if we are to survive this whole ordeal, we are going to have to commit acts such as the one Charles committed over and over again. We are going to have to make sacrifices, too. Morals, self-assurances, principles—all that shit goes out the window today. What makes me nervous is that when—_if_—I come through this alive, and if I look into a mirror, I'm probably not going to like what I see._

**_J. W._**


	10. Chapter 9: Setbacks

Chapter Nine: Setbacks

"Y'know, I could get used to this," Ted announced, pausing to take aim with his TDI submachine gun. He squeezed the trigger and loosed off a short burst of five or six rounds. The lead flashed through the air and caught a lone Infected, who had been standing on the other side of the street, right in the chest, taking it down.

"Well, _besides_ the fact that millions of people are dead or mindless zombie-things, I could get definitely used to this," Ted clarified, quickly rooting out the holes in his first statement. "Wandering around the city with my best pals-" that got a snort from Charles- "geared up with a fuckload of guns, and able to shoot anything that gets in our way." To emphasize his point, the coalminer took aim once more and shot down another Infected that had shuffled onto the street from a nearby back alley. "Life doesn't get much better than this."

"Spoken like a true redneck," Charles muttered under his breath.

"Hm?" Ted's ears perked up, hearing Charles's murmur, "You say somethin'?"

"Me? Oh, no, nothing," Charles replied evenly, then adding, "Nothing you don't already know on the inside."

"Aight, Chuck, that's enough for today," Wallace chimed in, trying hard to suppress the slight grin that was crawling over his face. As much as he clashed with Charles, the police sergeant had to admit that listening to the Bostonian subtly vent his obvious hatred for Ted _was_ pretty funny.

Charles, who by now had learned to ignore the nicknames his companions called him, offered only a neutral shrug in response, which did not give a real answer to Wallace's request.

The wind had started to pick up earlier in the morning. Now, as the sun began to sink down into the west, the light breeze had intensified into a constant gust. Ted's beard and Henry's unkempt gray hair were buffeted in the breeze when the survivors were walking right into the wind. Wallace watched them constantly pushing strands of hair from their eyes and, not for the first time, felt privately grateful that his own hair was nonexistent, save for the goatee that was beginning to bud on his chin.

"Feels like we might be getting' some weather soon," Wallace observed as he watched the sky. Clouds had begun to form, breaking the clear streak the city had had for the past week. It was hurricane season in the South, anyway, and Pennsylvania usually always got the remains of those storms in the form of two or three-day-long stretches of heavy rain.

"Oh, that would just make my day," Charles muttered. "We're battered and bloody, wading through the destruction of civilization in this area, experiencing the end of the world firsthand without much hope of coming through…and, on top of it all, we're going to get wet. Joy."

"I never said it was _going_ to rain," Wallace countered, "I just said it felt like we were gonna get some weather. Could be rain, might just be a stretch of clouds."

"Oh, trust me, it will be rain," Charles assured the sergeant. "It has to be. If it just ended up being clouds, that would not inconvenience us at all, so it has to be rain. You following the logic, here?"

"Eh…Massachusetts is prob'ly right," Ted interjected, using his new nickname for Charles, much to the Bostonian's chagrin. "God's been bitch-slapping all o' us ever since the damned Infected got loose in the city…what's a lil' rain gonna hurt on top o' all the rest o' the shit we're swimmin' in?"

"Uh-huh…" Wallace murmured. Ted, with his thick mountains accent, was hard enough to understand when he spoke in his normal voice. When he spoke in his low, gravelly, semi-conversational tones, he could have been speaking Ancient Greek for all his companions knew.

The survivors had been traveling through the heart of the city ever since dawn, beginning the next leg of their journey. They now headed through the downtown business district towards the docking centers that lined the banks of the Allegheny River. There, they would acquire a boat and travel downriver until it ran into Pittsburgh down south.

At least, that was the plan. There were still a million and one ways for it to blow up in their faces.

As the survivors started to approach the first string of skyscrapers that dominated the business sector, Wallace knew that this was not going to be a cakewalk. The downtown business sector had probably been one of the most heavily populated parts of the city during the outbreak…which would explain the masses of Infected milling about between the buildings.

Henry was taking point for the group. The survivors had been traveling through back alleys for the past hour or so, trying to avoid the main avenues where the Infected were no doubt concentrated en masse.

The old man was the first to reach the end of the alleyway and step out into the streets that ran through the business sector. He swore out loud and frantically backpedaled into the alley, flattening himself up against the brick wall.

"What is it?" Wallace asked haltingly, edging up to join Henry.

"Are there zombies out on the street?" Charles gave a mock gasp, his eyes going wide, "Oh God…I bet there are zombies…"

"Up yours, smartass," Henry grunted.

Wallace tentatively slid past Henry and poked his head out into the street. He automatically started to swear before his mind even registered what he was seeing.

Several hundred yards down from the alley's entrance was a massive traffic jam of cars, trucks, eighteen wheelers, tractor trailers, and pretty much anything else on wheels. Wallace supposed that it technically was no longer a traffic jam, as there was no one left alive in it to be held up from their destination, but there was no better way to describe it. The tangled line of scrap metal extended into the distance as far as the eye could see, which wasn't very far, but the point was made.

Hundreds of Infected were all over the mangled cars in the traffic jam. Back when people were actually trying to escape the city in cars, this must have been a Sunday picnic for the Infected. It looked like they had converged on this place from several directions, turning the jam-up into a meatgrinder for the civilians.

Wallace quickly pulled his head back into the alley before he could be spotted. He took a deep breath, summing up the whole sight in two simple words: "Well, fuck."

"No way in hell we're getting across that sea of shit," Henry muttered. "So, unless we have another plan…"

Wallace remained silent, tapping his foot lightly on the pavement, his mind deep in thought. While he pondered, Charles and Ted both stole quick glances out into the street, both of them having pretty much polar opposite reactions than their companions. Ted uttered a long string of choice oaths and curses, probably setting a new record for vulgarity. Ted, having spent a considerable portion of his life chipping away at coal in the northwest Pennsylvania mines, and an even longer portion spent inside of a liquor bottle, handled verbal profanity in the same way Rembrandt handled paint; it was an art to him.

Charles, on the other hand, just grunted and gave a simple shrug. That was it. That was either stoicism in its most powerful form, or sheer apathy. It was probably both, knowing the Bostonian.

"Sarge?" Henry prompted Wallace, who was still deep in thought, considering an alternate route that would circumvent the traffic jams.

Wallace snapped out of his reverie at Henry's beckon. "Sorry 'bout that, I get lost in my own head, sometimes…" the sergeant murmured in apology before addressing the matter at hand. "We cannot simply go another way. To get to the docks, we have to go through downtown, otherwise we'll be fighting pinned up against the river the entire way. We also can't just find another road; all roads leading towards the river in this area are blocked just as bad as this one is. Civilians were making a mad dash to get across the bridges, it looks like…poor bastards probably didn't know that there were only more Infected waiting for them on the other side."

"So, then, what do we do?" Henry asked the golden question.

Wallace gave the golden answer. "You're not gonna like it, not one bit. Follow me, and for God's sake, keep _quiet_."

Wallace stole out into the street, treading lightly so that the sound of his boots smacking the pavement would not echo down the buildings of the avenue. The other three survivors followed his lead, sticking close behind the African American.

The Infected continued to go about their business, none of them having noticed the survivors yet. Unless they were provoked, they were more likely to ignore them. That is, unless one of them caught sight of them and held its gaze for long enough to register them as a threat, or as a potential meal.

When Charles saw that Wallace was headed right for the nearest manhole, he stopped short. "You are joking," he said, not able to accept what Wallace was about to do.

"Am I laughing, Charlie?" Wallace countered, crouching down and grabbing hold of the metal manhole cover. He heaved, pulling it up and placing it down next to the shaft.

"You actually expect us to wade through three miles of…of…" Charles's mouth continued to move as he searched for the appropriate words, but they did not come. His voice was simply in lockdown.

"Your cleanliness, or your life, Charlie," Wallace replied as he swung his legs down into the shaft, "Choose wisely."

Charles was left standing where he was, goggling at the open sewer entrance. Wallace climbed down the shaft, followed closely by Ted, and then Henry. As Henry touched down at the bottom of the sewer, Charles glanced back up at the sea of Infected infesting the street ahead of them. Several of the nearest Infected stopped shuffling about and started to stare right at the Bostonian. If they started to attack, they would bring hundreds of their fellows down on the survivors.

Charles gave in, swearing darkly under his breath as he ducked down into the manhole shaft, climbing down the rusty yellow rungs to the bottom.

The sewers were pitch dark. There was the occasional utility light that cast off some small measure of illumination into the darkness, but they did not count for much. Charles fumbled into his pocket and pulled out his flashlight, clicking it on.

The other survivors followed suit, and there were soon four beams of light cutting through the darkness. This part of the sewers was dry. Wallace remembered in the back of his mind that there had been a water main burst in this area not too long ago, so the water for this part of the sewers must have been temporarily shut off. Then the Infection hit, and now there was no one left to bring the water back. That was a lucky break for the survivors.

The first thing the survivors noticed were the dozens of pairs of eyes in the darkness that the lights from their flashlights reflected off of. They were a sickly yellow hue, and the extra light made them actually glow. It ranked up there as one of the most unsettling sights Wallace had ever seen.

"Plug the bastards!" Wallace shouted, opening fire with his shogun, wiping out the first pair of eyes in an explosion of brain matter.

Charles swore again when he fumbled with his flashlight as he shouldered his AR-15. "We need to find a way to secure our lights to our guns; I can't hold a flashlight and fire this thing at the same time!" the Bostonian exclaimed.

"Well, until we find a utility store with duct tape or something else, that's too damn bad!" Wallace shouted back, countering Charles's point with cold, brutal logic.

Charles could only mutter and grumble under his breath in response. He tried tucking his flashlight under his arm. It wasn't great, but it freed up his hands, allowing him to handle his rifle.

The clatter of the AR-15 and Ted's TDI submachine gun reverberated down the tunnels, but it did not seem to attract anymore Infected. The survivors stood firm and carefully picked their targets. The number of charging Infected was a manageable one, and they were not able to attack from all directions; being in a sewer tunnel prevented that.

The Infected toppled like bowling pins as they tried to charge straight through the storm of gunfire the survivors were leveling at them. After a single, action-packed minute, the tunnel fell silent once more.

"Police them; make sure they're completely dead," Wallace ordered. The sergeant normally would ignore the corpses and keep on moving, but he didn't want to take any chances in a dark tunnel.

Ted quickly nudged every corpse that could possibly have still been alive, but none of them reacted to his touch. "Yep, we got 'em good. They're all cold-cuts now, Sarge."

"Wonderful," Wallace sighed. The African American rested his Mossberg behind his neck and across his shoulders, turning around and forging his way into the darkness of the tunnel ahead, his way illuminated only by the small circle of light provided by the flashlight he was carrying.

"We should probably find a warehouse or someplace like that once we get to the docks," Henry suggested as the group got moving, "In case we don't find any boats at the piers, it'll be good to have a place to lay low for a while until something comes along. We can probably find duct tape and other supplies in the warehouses, too…just a thought."

"No, that's a good idea," Wallace, who already knew that the docks were probably going to be empty, nodded approvingly, "We'll make it happen. Who knows…maybe we'll find more survivors there. I'm sure we weren't the only ones to come up with the idea of giving the docks a visit."

"Well, we'll never find out if we decide to spend the rest of our lives in this fetid shithole, _talking_," Charles interrupted, pulling his shirt over his mouth to block out some of the sewer's distinct odor, "so what say we pick up the pace a little bit?"

Ted let out a deep-throated chuckle as the survivors headed down the tunnel with some renewed speed. "All y'all wouldn't last a _minute_ in the mines," the coalminer quirked. He did not mind the smell of the sewer; he had smelled worse odors in his lifetime.

"Well, Theodore, that is why we aren't wastes of human flesh and blood like you are," Charles shot back, always quick on the draw, especially whenever Ted decided to open his mouth. Wallace, time and again, found himself wondering how Charles was able to think up his insults as fast as he did. "That is why we have these magical things called _jobs_. You know what a _job_ is?"

"Yeah, Massachusetts, I know what a goddamn _job_ is," Ted started to say, but Charles wouldn't let him finish.

"No, I mean a _real_ job," the Bostonian sighed, "Breaking rocks and getting paid in paper that can only be used in a company store does not quite qualify, I'm afraid. Nor does living in a liquor bottle. So you're right, we _wouldn't_ last a minute in your precious mines. Congratulations. Give me the address of your shoebox and I'll put a star sticker on your toilet seat."

"Just sayin'…" Ted shrugged, deciding not to pursue an argument with the sharp-tongued Bostonian; he knew that he would lose. He briefly considered throwing a punch one of these days when Charles was least expecting that, but the coalminer decided against that, too. The Bostonian had a sharp tongue, sure, but there was something about him that made Ted think that he could probably whoop his ass up and down the street if he wanted to. Better not to put Charles to the test, especially when Ted himself would be the test subject's punching bag.

"Hey, old married couple, a few minutes of peace and quiet?" Henry requested, much to the annoyance of both parties.

Charles flicked the older man a quick glare, but fell silent regardless.

Wallace continued to lead the way through the dark tunnels. Thankfully, the survivors did not run into anymore Infected as they went. When Henry commented on their absence, Wallace replied, "This section of the sewers is sealed off from all the rest; that's why it's dry. All the Infected in the main sewer network aren't able to get in here, unless they come down through the manholes."

"Lucky us," Charles grunted, though he actually did not sound completely sarcastic that time.

Wallace pushed on into the sewers for a good twenty-five or thirty minutes before he finally stopped. "We should be close to the river, now…" he murmured.

"Should we find another manhole?" Charles suggested.

"No," the African American shook his head, "No, we should find an entrance into a building. I don't like the idea of crawling out of a manhole…too easy to get jumped by one of the bastards. Especially when we don't know what's above our heads."

"It's a plan," Charles affirmed.

"Down here…" Wallace headed across the tunnel, where a service culvert was just barely visible in the dark. He led his three companions through the short hallway. There had been service entrances like this spaced rather evenly from each other, but no one had noticed them because most of the utility lights in the sewer were down.

The short corridor turned round into a stairwell with a painted yellow railing that switch backed up to street level. The door was a rusty, heavy duty double-door that had obviously not been used in some time. A rusty chain was snaked through the two handles, and a metal bar was locked across the length of the doors, holding them fast.

Wallace used the butt of his Mossberg to knock off the grooves locking the metal bolt in place, allowing him to pull the bolt free. He tossed it back down the stairwell, where it hit the landing with a loud, echoing clatter. It was loud enough to make the others wince, but Wallace was not all that worried. If the sound attracted any Infected from the sewers that the survivors had not encountered, the ghouls would only be able to get to them from the stairs. They would never get far enough to take a bite.

Sure enough, there was a single growl in the darkness. Ted whipped his flashlight around, shining it down the stairs as he heard the sound of feet clambering up the metal steps. He pulled out his pistol in favor of his TDI. The instant the approaching Infected reached the last landing before the doors, Ted fired a single shot at it. The bullet missed, punching a hole in the wall to the right of the Infected's head.

The coalminer swore under his breath and adjusted his aim, firing a second time. This time, the shot caught the Infected right between the eyes, dropping it where it stood. "I'll need to work on that," Ted mumbled.

"You're handling yourself pretty well so far for someone who hasn't fired a gun their whole life," Wallace observed, throwing the coalminer a bone. The African American returned his attention to the double doors leading into the building the survivors were in. He tried pushing and pulling the doors, but the chains and the locking mechanism held them tightly shut.

The sergeant gave an apathetic shrug and hefted his shotgun, emptying a shell into the center of the door, blowing a sizeable hole into the metal. The policeman pressed a foot to the doors and gave them a good shove, causing them to fly open, banging against the walls of the corridor on the other side.

There were a few Infected sitting in the room beyond, but Charles took all of them out before they had a chance to get up. The Bostonian replaced the clip in his AR-15 and gave a thumbs-up when he was ready to proceed.

Wallace led the way through the basement room, careful to scan every corner and culvert with his flashlight before walking past. It would not do to have an unseen Infected leap out at him from behind because he had overlooked it.

There was another set of stairs that led up to the ground floor. As the survivors ascended them, they recognized the building that they were in as a storage facility for enamelware. The hallway above had several offshoots that led into the main storage spaces, but the survivors brushed right past them and headed straight for the exit.

Sergeant Wallace pushed open the doors, squinting as the sunlight streamed through and hit his retinas. He clicked off his flashlight, stowing it in his belt, and let his eyes adjust to the late afternoon daylight.

"Make me go into another sewer again and I'll bury you," Charles warned, but the Bostonian quickly relented, adding, "but it _did_ get us away from that jam-up. Points for that."

"Let's keep moving," Henry urged everyone on, "I want to have a place scouted out for us before nightfall. If we have to hold our flashlights and shoot at the same time out here in the streets, we're definitely fucked."

Wallace took point this time, leading the way through the rows of square, blocky warehouses that formed the docking area near the river. The survivors had emerged a short distance away from the actual docks, but the walk would only take a few minutes. The traffic on the roads had been circumvented; the nearest bridge was at least three miles away. There would be no cars in this area.

"There it is!" Ted exclaimed pointing to the left as the survivors walked past another warehouse. Sure enough, at the end of the road which Ted was gesturing down was the murky brown waters of the Alleghany River; the aqueous highway which would transport the survivors down to Pittsburgh. That is, if they were able to find a boat.

"Where the hell are the boats supposed to be?" Charles asked as Wallace turned and started heading down towards the river. The Bostonian, after he finished speaking, swore as he accidentally trod on a small pile of bird feces.

"There's a marina nearby," the sergeant replied, "but we'll focus on acquiring a boat tomorrow. For now, we're going to just find a-"

Wallace was still in mid-sentence when they all heard the rifle shot. Everyone except Ted had extensive knowledge about firearms; the sound of the rifle's _**crack**_ told them that it was a high-powered weapon, and therefore a long-range one—either a hunting rifle or a sniper rifle. Most likely some type of hunting rifle; sniper rifles were not very common outside of the military.

The point is that a fellow human was the last thing any of the survivors expected, let alone a sniper, and let alone a fellow human sniper that was shooting _at_ them.

Wallace's mind briefly flashed back to when he was with Carson after surviving the thermobaric hammerdown the Air Force had given to the General Hospital area. When he and Carson had reached the foodstore which would eventually be overrun, he had been shot in the chest by a man with a rifle who had mistaken him for an Infected. His body armor had saved him, obviously, but whenever the African American heard the sound of gunfire, it wound him up tighter than a spring. The moment Wallace heard the rifle shot, he was already throwing himself down flat onto the pavement. While the reflex would have saved him, the sniper had not been aiming for him.

The feces on Charles's shoe saved the Bostonian's life. As Charles was bending over to get rid of the excrement on his shoe, he bent over to the side. The rifle shot caught him in his left side, slicing right past the fleshy area between the pelvis and the lower-left floater rib. It was slightly more serious than a mere graze, but it was still just a very survivable flesh wound. Had Charles still been standing up straight, the shot would have caught either his lung, or his stomach.

Flesh wound or no, though, the bullet still took out piece of flesh the width and length of a finger. Charles was spun around by the force of the graze, falling onto his back. A raw-throated scream of pain rose from the Bostonian's throat, followed by a storm of profanity that rivaled even Ted's vulgar rants.

"_We're Human, asshole!_" Henry shouted at the top of his lungs towards the warehouse where he had spotted the muzzle flash. It had come from the third-story window of one of the warehouses lining the bank of the river. Someone must have seen four moving figures and jumped to conclusions without taking the time to identify the targets.

Wallace could understand why any survivor in this city would be a bag of nerves by now, but that Charles remained wounded any which way you perceived the situation, so empathy really didn't matter at this point.

"Charles!" Wallace shouted, picking himself up and hurrying over to where the Bostonian lay. The sergeant shucked off Charles's suit jacket—which now sported a bullet hole in its lower-left fold—and took a quick glance at the wound. The bullet had taken off all of the skin of the area it had hit, exposing the muscle and sinew. Blood was now beginning to flow freely. The Bostonian would need a new shirt, needless to say.

"Get to that warehouse, _move!_" Wallace shouted at Henry and Ted, gesturing towards the building where the shot had come from. The sniper had not fired twice, so he or she had obviously seen their error.

Wallace slung his shotgun over his shoulder and picked Charles up. The Bostonian was not all that heavy, which helped a lot. Wallace set off down the road at full sprint, pounding down the asphalt after his companions.

Henry reached the entrance first. He tried the handle, but, not surprisingly, it didn't budge. The old man rattled the lock and pounded on the door repeatedly, shouting, "Oi! You shot one of us, boyo; you had better let us in!"

Ted reached the door as well and joined Henry in banging away at the door. Just as they were starting to turn to increasingly violent threats, a rattling, mechanical whir started to come from off to the left.

One of the large, metal, garage-style doors was opening, the metal slatted door pulled up into the ceiling, presenting the survivors with an entrance.

A young man stood in the entrance. He was a shorter man, in his early twenties, with messy brown hair, clad in a green t-shirt and black jeans. He was holding a small yellow control box-remote that was attached to a thick cord of the same color which extended up into the ceiling. It had a series of buttons on it that could open and close the garage doors, and the man was pressing one of them. He lifted his thumb from the button he had been pressing and the door stopped opening, remaining halfway open.

The man's eyes widened a little bit when he saw Charles bleeding in Wallace's arms. "Oh God…oh my God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Officer, I didn't mean to…he…I thought you were…everyone I've seen has been…oh _God_-" the man babbled, nearing the point of incoherence as looked at Charles's wound.

"Get the goddamn door closed," Wallace ordered the man as he and his companions ducked into the warehouse. The man quickly obeyed, depressing the button that made the door close. The garage door steadily rattled its way down towards the floor until it hit the ground and automatically sealed itself, rendering the interior of the warehouse safe once more.

"What's your name?" Charles hissed at the man, "I want to know your family name so that I know who to send the funeral flowers to! God _damn_ it all, you couldn't just-"

"Henry, shut him up!" Wallace exclaimed.

Henry obliged, drawing back a fist and connecting it with Charles's jaw, knocking the Bostonian out cold. The old man winced slightly as one of his knuckles began to bruise, shaking his hand out. "Man must have a jaw of steel…" he grumbled.

The young man finally calmed himself down just enough to be able to speak in full sentences. "I thought you were Infected…I thought _everyone_ was Infected…I haven't seen other people for three days now. Everyone I've run into has been one of…of _them_…I…"

Just as the young man started to trail off again, Wallace stopped him, setting a hand on his shoulder. "We understand," the sergeant said. He then removed his hand and bent down, laying Charles out onto the floor. "I wouldn't say we're exactly _grateful_, especially him-" the sergeant gestured to Charles, "-but we know you weren't shooting at us for target practice… Still, take a second to make sure your targets are hostiles next time, if that's not too difficult for you?"

"Here, I'm a medical intern; let me take a look at him," the young man offered, leaning down over Charles and pulling away the Bostonian's shirt, exposing the wound in its full beauty. The man murmured quietly to himself, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a sullied washcloth, pressing it to the wound, temporarily halting the blood flow. "It's just a flesh wound; it'll heal within a week, but…there's a high chance of infection; the bullets I'm using…I don't know where they've been. If we don't get any medical supplies, he could get a staph infection."

Wallace let out a weary sigh as he straightened him, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he considered what this entailed. "I guess this means we won't be going to the marina tomorrow."

* * *

_Jesus. If God has a sense of humor, then it's a sick, dark, twisted one. Just when we start making some headway, one of us has to get _shot_, of all things. The guy we met; his name is Lev. He's a med student immigrant from Russia or some other country…he said he was interning at a nearby hospital. I figure I'll grab him and Ted, and we'll hightail it over there, grab the meds Charles will need, and then run our asses back here. It's a simple, straightforward plan…what could go wrong?_

_Maybe I shouldn't have said that._

**_J. W._**


	11. Chapter 10: Coming Storms

Chapter Ten: Coming Storms

_Six Days Later_

It was getting colder outside. Of course, 'colder' in late August still meant warm and humid—just not as sweltering as it usually was. Clouds were beginning to roll in. The perfectly clear, blue sky of the past week was now gone, replaced with a rolling expanse of light and dark gray. The blue still peeked through in some spots, but the clouds were the dominant force in the sky. For the most part, they were all light gray cumulus clouds, but a front of what appeared to be dark gray thunderheads was visible in the distance.

Sergeant Jerome Wallace was making his way down one of the countless roads that ran through the fringes of the downtown business sector. Close in step behind him was Ted, the grimy, middle-aged coalminer, and Lev, the young medical intern whom the survivors had encountered in a warehouse in the docks nearby.

"I'm smellin' some rain," Wallace murmured, gazing up at the overcast sky. He adjusted the grip he had on his Mossberg-590, as if the oncoming weather threatened to part him from his weapon.

"Now we get to fight off zombies _and_ be soakin' wet at the same time," Ted chuckled, pausing to scratch his beard before continuing. "Why does Fate always have to be such a bitch?"

"Careful what you say," Wallace warned, "there's still plenty more shit for us to wade through that we probably haven't even thought of yet."

Lev, who had been silent for the majority of the time, raised his hunting rifle to his shoulder, peered through the scope, and squeezed the trigger. Far off on down the street, the silhouette of a distant Infected crumpled over and collapsed onto the pavement, where it lay unmoving.

It had been nearly six days since Lev had accidentally shot Charles in the side. The medical intern had, after spending several days fleeing from the horde, mistaken the survivors for Infected themselves, and had opened fire at them with his long-range rifle. He had grazed Charles's side. It had been nothing more than a flesh wound, but as flesh wounds went Charles's had the potential to become deadly.

Luckily, Charles had not come down with any infections from his wound; the Bostonian must have had one hell of an immune system.

Today, Henry was back in the warehouse, looking after Charles. The Bostonian's bullet graze had, over the past six days, scarred over, but Wallace had ordered Charles to remain in the warehouse for the time being. Even though the Bostonian had not come down with any kind of infection, Wallace did not want to push his luck, not yet.

Wallace had taken Ted and Lev to try and scout out a way into the marina, which was situated on the bank of the Alleghany River eight or ten miles south of the warehouse. It was a good hike away, but the three survivors had been hoofing it since early morning. They were a good part of the way there.

The presence of Infected had been somewhat low as well, allowing for faster travel by not forcing the survivors to stop every few yards to take out a ghoul blocking their path.

As Wallace was continuing down the sidewalk, heading south in the general direction of the marina, he spied an open shop door. It had probably been a convenience store in a previous life, though now the only things that identified it as a store were the walls and ceiling that once encompassed it. The entire inside was trashed and splattered with bodily matter.

"Let's check this joint out," Wallace suggested. "I'm getting kind of peckish…joints like that usually have snacks on sale. 'Course, we won't have to bother with paying for them anymore, if that still counts as a plus."

Ted grunted and offered a shrug. "Eh…why the hell not? We been walkin' all fuckin' day, anyhow…"

Wallace walked right up to the door, edging through into the dark room beyond. He started to shoulder his Mossberg, but then changed his mind and slung it over shoulder. Instead, he pulled his nightstick from his belt, twirling it around his fingers like a drum major's baton before gripping its hilt. He rapped it several times against the metal doorframe, waiting for any response n the form of the growls and moans of the Infected.

None came.

Wallace relaxed a little bit and stepped into the shop. The late afternoon sunshine shone through the open doorway, illuminating the interior of the shop. There were a few aisles of small snacks—chips, twizzlers, candy, etc. There was a stand of sunglasses that had been toppled, along with a rack of T-shirts that had had all of its contents scattered all over the floor.

There was blood on the floor, but there were no corpses or Infected in the store, so the owner or owners of the blood must have hightailed it out of here before either dying or turning.

"Grab what you want, 'n make it quick," Ted grunted, brushing his way past the policeman and grabbing a bag of Doritos.

As the coalminer munched on his snack, Wallace picked up an undamaged pair of sunglasses and slid them into one of his police uniform's chest pockets. He then glanced over to another small table, one which had been next to the collapsed table that had once held the T-shirts. This table had an assortment of key-chains and bandannas. The sergeant picked up a black bandanna, which was adorned with a white and red skull and crossbones. Something about the bandanna appealed to him. He did not necessarily _need_ one, but all the same…he liked the way it looked. He held it uncertainly, running his fingers across the pirate's insignia.

Had Charles been present, the Bostonian probably would have asked Wallace if he was looking for the secret of existence in the black cloth.

Wallace chuckled inwardly. For all his faults and flaws, Charles had nevertheless still forged himself a place in the survivors' group, and having him and his insults absent felt like a void that the policeman just couldn't put his finger on.

"Why not?" Wallace murmured to himself. He placed the bandanna on top of his smooth, hairless scalp and tied it around the back of his head.

"I'm likin' it," Ted said to Wallace, gesturing at the police sergeant's new addition. "Looks like you've officially gone rogue."

Wallace grunted in amusement and gave a passive shrug. "You'd be right, only there's nothing left to go rogue _from_."

"Gotta point, there…"

Wallace grabbed an energy bar off of one of the shelves and peeled away the wrapping, taking a bite. As he chewed, he noticed another kiosk that was situated behind the check-out counter. It was a cigarette stand. "Oh, thank you, Jesus," the African American exclaimed, circumventing the counter and walking right up to the cigarette stand.

The packs of cigarettes were stored behind a pane of plexiglass. It functioned like a vending machine, except it was operated by a clerk turning a key in the dispenser mechanism rather than inserting money. Wallace tightened his grip in his nightstick and brought it whipping around, smashing it into the glass.

The tempered glass withstood the blow, but a series of cracks began to spiderweb out from the point of impact. Wallace inverted the nightstick and struck again, this time hitting the glass with the hilt.

That did the trick; with the second strike, the glass shattered and fell away. Wallace reached through and grabbed a handful of packs, sweeping them into his rucksack.

"The hell 'r ya doin'?" Ted was saying as he rounded the corner of an aisle to find out why Wallace was breaking into something, but he then saw the cigarettes. "Ah…"

The three survivors had cleared out of the convenience store after a few more minutes, somewhat rested and rejuvenated by their short break.

"So, Lev…" Wallace decided to break the silence with the newest addition to his group after walking a few blocks. Lev had not spoken a word since the day before, and Wallace intended to nip that sort of behavior in the bud.

"I know what you're going to say," Lev surprised Wallace and Ted by speaking so forthrightly; "I haven't been talking much lately."

"Well, the better we know each other, the better we'll work together," Wallace said. "And the better we work together, the more likely we are to survive this shitstorm."

"Ain't that the goddamn truth…" Ted murmured.

"I know, it's just that…well…I've only been a medical intern for a year, but I've seen my fair share of…" Lev searched for the right word, "of _cases_… I've seen a lot of death, you know. People die in the hospital all the time. I hate putting it like this, but you quickly get used to it and, to some degree, desensitized to it."

"Until zombies started tearing the living shit outta all us, you mean," Ted interjected.

"Yeah, until then," Lev conceded in agreement. "I've just needed time to…cope…I…"

"Don't sweat it," Wallace gave a dismissive wave. "Everyone's dealin' with it one way or another. I just want to make sure you don't go mute on us all of a sudden."

"No…no, I don't think that will ever be an issue."

Wallace, having addressed the matter of Lev's silence, decided to change tack, opting to delve into the young man's past. "So what's your story?"

"My what?" Lev sounded confused.

"Your story," Wallace repeated himself. "How did you get to where you are now? For example; I was part of the riot-control police response force that tried to pacify the mob at General Hospital. The Infected broke out of the perimeter; I ran the fuck away with my partner. Two weeks later, here I stand."

"Didn't General Hospital get pounded by the Air Force?" Lev asked, sensing a hole in Wallace's story.

"Mm-hm," the African American grunted. "High-impulse thermobaric ordinance; incendiary bombs that expand and eat up any poor bastard unlucky enough to get in its way. My partner and I; we hid in the kitchen of a restaurant. We were just far enough outside the kill zone…"

"And where is your partner, now?"

Wallace hesitated, his jaw hardening. "Lying in an apartment bedroom with his head blown off."

"Oh…" Lev started to backpedal, "I'm sorry…"

"No reason to be," Wallace shrugged. "It wasn't my partner who I shot, anyways; it was just his body. He had turned. I suppose I did him a favor."

"What about your friend, there; what's _his_ story?" Lev asked, gesturing discreetly at Ted, who had drifted up ahead, deciding to take point. "He looks like he probably spent the whole time in a liquor bottle before waking up and smelling the coffee."

Wallace let out a deep, chesty laugh at Lev's statement; not because it was humorous or funny, but because it was spot-on _true_. Ted _had_ been completely oblivious and hung over when Wallace and Charles had found him in the Sidewinder.

"Funny story about that, actually," Wallace chuckled, intending to tell Lev jut how right he had been, when Ted called out to them, interrupting Wallace's train of thought.

"Hey fellas!" the coalminer had reached the next major intersection and was gesturing down the road leading off to the right, which was west. "Fellas, uh…that's, uh…that ain't the way we're supposed to be goin', is it?"

"No, that road runs right to the marina," Wallace replied, "All the other ways we've passed have been blocked up by traffic congestion…and traffic jams mean Infected. That road is the _only_ viable route…" a note of suspicion crept into the African American's voice as it occurred to him to wonder why Ted would seem so keen on asking about that road. "Why?"

"Uh…" Ted murmured, still gazing off down the road, staring at something beyond Wallace and Lev's view, "We, uh…we may have to find a detour."

"Why would we have to-" Wallace was starting to say when he caught up with Ted, but when he rounded the street corner and saw what the coalminer had been looking at, his voice died.

What looked like a hotel or a tall office building was currently resting on its side across the one clear road that led to the marina, where the only remaining boats in the city would be located. It was an entire building complex—perhaps not large enough to be classified as a skyscraper, but it was by no means a _small_ building.

Regardless of what the building actually was, it was blocking the survivors' way to the marina.

"Jesus Christ; what _happened_ to the thing?" Lev whispered, in awe of the toppled building.

"Must have been knocked over by the Air Force's thermobaric hammerdown," Wallace murmured. The sergeant's mind flashed back briefly to when he and Carson had just barely managed to evade the hellstorm the Air Force had unleashed on the area surrounding General Hospital. Judging by the blackened pavement, the carbonized skeletons littering the street, the absence of windows, and the collapse and destruction of many of the structures on this road, Wallace could tell that this area had taken a much harsher beating than General Hospital had.

Not that it mattered, really. The Infection still spread like a wildfire through a dead forest, regardless of the military's efforts to stop it.

"We're gonna have t'find another way 'round," Ted repeated himself, sweeping his gaze up, down, and around the ruin of the building blocking up the road.

"No," Wallace shook his head. The policeman glanced up to the sky, looking at the patches of blue that still managed to peek through the overcast gray clouds. Brilliant rays of golden, amber light were shining through the gaps in the clouds. That meant that it was mid-to-late afternoon. "No, there's no time to find another way through…there _is_ no other way through. But we're burning enough daylight as it is; I do _not_ want to get caught out here in the dark."

"We should probably turn back if that is what you want to avoid," Lev suggested, also casting a nervous glance at the sun's progress through the clouds.

"We're not going back through the streets, not if I can help it," Wallace replied. "When we go back to that warehouse, we'll be in a boat."

"I thought you said we were just scouting out a route," Lev reminded the African American. The young medical intern sounded confused; Wallace was acting against everything he had said earlier in the day.

"Yeah; I just said that to convince Henry to stay with Charles," Wallace explained, pausing to rub a speck of congealed blood off of his Mossberg's stock.

"But why take _me_ with you?" Lev asked. "I'm not exactly what you would call 'experienced' when it comes to shooting people," the young intern pointed out, drumming his fingers on the grip of the P220 sidearm pistol that had once belonged to Reginald Carson. After Wallace had put Carson down, the pistol had been given to Charles, who in turn had given it to Lev. The Bostonian, who now used an AR-15, needed it the least.

"Ted over there has never fired a weapon since he was a teenager, and even then it was only because he visited a shooting range once or twice," Wallace countered, gesturing over to the coalminer, who had drifted off again, busy hocking a tobacco-brown lugie up onto the sidewalk. "Look at him now; he's able to fire and operate an SMG like he's been a soldier his whole life."

Just as Wallace spoke, Ted's grip on his TDI Vector slipped as he wiped his fingers on his pants, and the SMG nearly clattered onto the asphalt before Ted managed to grab onto it at the last second.

"Well…maybe not his _whole_ life…" Wallace corrected himself. "But you get the idea. Firearm experience isn't factoring into this one. Besides, I don't want Charles running around quite yet, not with that scar on his side. I can't leave him in the warehouse alone—he'd probably prefer it that way, but I still won't leave anyone on their own. Besides, would you rather I have left you with Charles, alone?"

"Point taken."

"I thought so," Wallace chuckled.

"So, you figure out what the hell we're gonna do 'bout this 'ere building in our way?" Ted hollered over to Wallace. The coalminer was starting to pace around in a rough circle, clear evidence that he was getting impatient.

"We're going through it," Wallace answered.

"_Through_ it, you said?"

"Through it," Wallace repeated, giving a confirming nod. He shouldered his Mossberg and set off down the road towards the twisted mountain of steel and concrete that was the collapsed building.

Ted and Lev paused for a brief moment to trade a sidelong glance, but both survivors simply shrugged and set off after the police sergeant.

There were no Infected between the intersection and the toppled building, making the going faster and easier than it would have been otherwise. Wallace picked his way through the rubbish and garbage that littered the street, as well as the carbonized remains of unlucky Infected and civilians who had been caught in the thermobaric blast from two weeks ago.

The survivors, once they reached the toppled building, were able to climb up on top of an overturned flatbed truck, only a part of which was sticking out from under the building. It must have been about to travel past the building when the building itself had fallen over. Nevertheless, it formed a perfect way for the survivors to be able to reach the first row of windows.

Wallace was the first to climb the truck. He kept his balance on the roof of the truck's front driver's nest as he pulled his Mossberg back out. He leveled his shotgun at the window in front of him and fired, sending a high-powered shell straight into the glass, obliterating it.

The policeman steadied himself on the bricked wall, reaching up and getting a grip on the windowsill of the window he had blown out. With a moderate amount of effort, Wallace heaved himself up and into the window. Now safely inside the building, the police sergeant turned and helped Ted and Lev up through the opening.

The inside of the building had, obviously, no lights, but the daylight from outside streamed through the windows, still managing to illuminate the interior. From what the survivors could see, they were on an office floor, filled with cubicles, desks, chairs—the whole shebang. Of course, seeing as the building was on its side, the floor and ceiling were now walls, and the walls were now the floor and ceiling. The cubicles lined one of the walls, chairs and waste baskets still teetering precariously on the edges of some.

The survivors had to wade through everything that had fallen onto the wall that was lying on the ground while crossing their fingers and hoping to God that nothing fell on them from above.

Wallace cursed as he stubbed a toe on a desk leg he had overlooked, holding out a hand to steady himself. It was disorienting, waling through a room that was on its side. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. The survivors were walking on a wall.

Wallace was just starting to imagine what would be coming out of Charles's mouth, had the Bostonian been present, when he finally reached the other side of the office. It had not been a long or wide office space; only sixty or seventy yards across. Not easy to traverse, with the amount of junk piled up on the 'floor', but still manageable.

The survivors also had to tread carefully around the windows. The wall on which they were walking had windows as well. Well, it _used_ to have windows; all that remained after the building's collapse were rectangular holes through which asphalt was visible below.

Wallace emptied another shell into the window nearest to the ground on the other side of the building, shattering the glass outward into the street. A desk had also fallen right in front of the window in a lucky stroke, allowing the policeman to climb right up to the edge and look outside.

The first thing Wallace noticed was the subtle, omnipresent buzzing of the flies, followed up by the unmistakable stench of death and decomposition.

Dozens, maybe hundreds of corpses littered the street outside. Some were dead Infected, others dead humans; all of them equally dead nonetheless. Wallace observed that the outside of the collapsed building was riddled with bullet holes. Someone had been shooting in this direction, perhaps contributing to the carpet of bodies lying in the street.

"Jesus…" Ted murmured as he stepped up next to Wallace, taking in the vista for himself. "What the hell happened here?"

Wallace squinted so that he could see better, peering down the road in the direction of the marina. The trail of bodies extended all the way down the road. It wasn't quite as thick further on down as it was right next to the collapsed building, but it was still substantial, stretching as far down the road as it was possible to see.

"That outlet down there is what leads to the marina," Wallace explained, pointing down the road to a smaller street that formed a three-way intersection with the main road, branching out towards the river, which was just barely visible through the shops and antique stores forming the sides of this road. "Looks like we weren't the only ones to get the bright idea of heading to the marina…people must have flocked here when they realized there was no other way out of the city."

"And the Infected decided to keep 'em company," Ted grunted.

Lev joined his companions on the table in front of the window, gazing outside to see for himself what Wallace and Ted were conversing about. "My God…" the young man quavered, taking in the carnage of the street beyond. His face turned a light shade of green and he looked as it he were going to get sick, but he was somehow able to hold it in.

"First time seeing a slaughter?" Wallace asked the younger man as he started to climb out of the window.

"It isn't _your_ first?" Lev replied, answering the question with another question.

That earned a mirthless laugh from the African American. "Not even close," he said.

The three survivors climbed through the window of the toppled office building and dropped down into the street. The first thing Wallace did was to quickly sweep his gaze all around, making sure that there weren't any Infected who were hiding in an obscure corner or among any nearby corpses.

There were three or four Infected who had been sitting among the bodies on the street, unnoticed by the survivors from the window. Ted put each one down with a quick burst from his Vector before they could completely get to their feet.

Wallace paid no attention to Ted's executions. What caught his attention was an abnormality among some of the corpses.

It was closer to the building, what Wallace was looking at. A nondescript corpse was lying on its side. It had no head, but that wasn't what Wallace was looking at; the man looked as if he had been morbidly obese, though even 'morbidly obese' would probably have been an understatement. Wallace was unable to determine just how fat he had been, though, because the corpse's entire torso looked as if it had exploded outward. A shattered ribcage was visible in the red, gory mess of blood and viscera, as well as brown, green, and pink lumps that had once been internal organs.

It was almost as if the man's stomach had gotten so big that it had quite literally burst, like a needle popping a balloon. That couldn't possibly have been what happened, but it sure looked like it.

All of the bodies around the exploded obese corpse were covered in a slimy, mucus-like substance. It looked and smelled like bile. It wasn't normal bile, however; its distinct green hue attested to that.

"Watcha lookin' at?" Ted asked, noticing Wallace crouching over the blown-open obese Infected's corpse.

"Never seen anything like this, before…" Wallace murmured. He reached out a tentative hand and dipped two fingers into the bile, bringing it up to his nose and sniffing. It didn't smell particularly bad or grotesque…but it was still a powerful, pungent odor.

"Like wha—oh, _shit,_" Ted started to say, but broke off into a swear when he saw the blown-open corpse with his own eyes. The coalminer turned on his heel, crouched over, and retched his lunch out onto the pavement, taking care to avoid hitting his boots.

Wallace wiped the green bile off of his fingers and onto the jacket of a nearby corpse. The dead woman who was wearing the jacket did not mind all that much. As the police sergeant straightened up, he noticed that there were two or three other, similar exploded corpses amidst the carnage of bodies, all of them just as grotesquely obese as the one Wallace had observed.

Wallace also began to notice irregularities in some of the dead. The Infected bit, clawed, bludgeoned, and tore their victims apart once they were caught, but they were only capable of inflicting damage a human would be able to. Some of the corpses had huge, gaping claw marks gouging out of their chests and stomachs. Some had had their entire abdominal cavities torn out, others had ripped-open chests and splintered ribcages. More still had what looked like severe acid burns covering what remained of their bodies. Those wounds were definitely inflicted by Infected, there was no arguing that fact, but no normal Infected that Wallace had encountered would have been able to deal out punishment as great as those wounds suggested.

There was only one explanation that could explain those wounds.

"They're changing," Wallace declared, getting back up to his feet and hefting his shotgun, preparing to set off down the road once more. "Come on. Let's haul ass to the marina before something else goes wrong."

* * *

_I've got a bad feeling about this. By 'this' I don't mean the marina—I've had bad feelings about that for the past week. I mean our whole situation; I mean everything. I have a bad feeling about it. We were cooped up in that warehouse for nearly a week, waiting for Charles to recover from his bullet graze…maybe in the space of that time the virus, or whatever it is that makes the Infected what they are; I think it may be mutating. As I observe dead Infected in the streets, I'm now seeing some as bloated and fat as the one I found by the collapsed building, I'm seeing others with abnormally large upper-body muscles, and even some that look like their fingers are turning into claws._

_I don't know what's happening, but I don't like it. The Infected are changing, of that I have no doubt. What scares me is _how_ exactly they will change…will they become faster? Stronger? Deadlier than they already are now, if that's even possible? I have a bad feeling that this shit is about to get taken to a whole new level._

**_J. W._**


	12. Chapter 11: Hope Restored

Chapter Eleven: Hope Restored

"Okay, so what the hell are we supposed to do _now?_" Ted grumbled as he gazed down at the carnage that had once been the city marina.

The marina had been fenced off during the initial stages of the Infection...once the city-wide quarantine had been declared, the national guard had quickly sealed off the freeway, the interstate, all roads leading out of the city, the subways...and one of the last things they had done was to destroy the marina. Dozens and dozens of boats that were on the docks were all nothing but burnt-out husks. Useless.

And to make matters even worse, the whole place was choked with Infected. The creatures were shuffling about the marina, tripping over piles of rubbish, falling into the water, or just standing aimlessly. The inhuman noises they produced could be clearly heard all the way from the survivors' fire escape hidey-hole.

Jerome Wallace's expression did not change. This wasn't the first time he had been faced with a dead-end situation like this one...but that didn't mean he simply thought everything was going to be okay; far from it. On the contrary, Wallace had a certainty that he would not leave this city alive, and every time he and the other survivors beat the odds, it surprised him even more.

And so, it was not with surprise or anger that the former police sergeant gazed down on the wreckage. It was with calm acceptance...possibly even resignation.

The black police sergeant sighed again and lowered his binoculars, wiping off a speck of gore from the shoulder of his blue police uniform. "Okay..." he murmured. "Okay, this is pretty bad...I'm not gonna lie to y'all, but this is pretty bad..."

"How do we leave the city without these boats?" Lev, the medical intern, asked. "The roads are all out, the subways are either flooded or swarming with Infected, there are no more aerial evac zones...what are we supposed to do now? _Walk_ out of the city? We wouldn't last a day!"

"No goddamn idea," Wallace shrugged, sliding down the brick wall and sitting flat on the metal floor of the fire escape. Lev, Wallace, and Ted were all currently holed up on the fire escape of an apartment complex less than a block away from the marina. The buildings in between them and the marina had all been burned or knocked down, allowing them a clear view of the whole place.

For a while, an uneasy silence settled upon the three survivors as they tried to think of what to do next. Finally, they were all shaken back to reality by a sudden burst of nearby gunfire.

"What the hell?" Wallace grunted, getting back up to his feet. The others hefted their weapons, flicking off safeties-wherever there was gunfire, Infected were never far away. "Where's that coming from?"

"North," Lev pointed away from the marina, back down the way they had come. Sure enough, the inside of the office building that had fallen across the road was lit up with muzzle flashes; sure signs of human life. "Jesus..."

After what felt like a full minute, four people tumbled out of the windows of the collapsed building that Wallace had led his team through, sprinting down the street for all they were worth. Behind them, a roiling sea of Infected roiled out of the windows, hot on the survivors' heels.

"Lev! Lay down some covering fire!" Wallace shouted to the medical intern, who was the one armed with a scoped rifle. "Ted, let's get the bottom ladder lowered!"

The scruffy coalminer followed Wallace down the flights of metal stairs towards street level. When they had climbed up to the top of the fire escape, the first thing they had done before proceeding had been to raise the ladder leading to the first flight of stairs, preventing the Infected from following them. They now raced back down to the bottom of the fire escape so that they could lower the ladder for these new survivors out on the streets.

Wallace and Ted hit the releases and the ladder slid from its groove, shooting downwards until it clanged to a stop around a foot above the asphalt. The sharp, resounding _cracks_ of Lev's rifle echoed off of the ruined buildings as the medical intern took out several of the charging Infected. More gunshots rang out as the four survivors on the ground laid down more fire as they ran towards the fire escape.

"Common! MOVE IT!" Ted was howling at the survivors, gesticulating madly at them as if he could mentally make them run faster.

Wallace could not help but notice something familiar about the lead survivor on the ground, but he had no time to play Guess Who. That lead survivor reached the ladder and jumped up, pulling himself up the rungs. A blond-haired woman dressed in a tie-dye T-shirt and jeans followed close behind the first survivor.

The last two-a younger man, probably around twenty or so, and an older African-American woman-pulled themselves up to the first landing just in the nick of time. By the time Wallace pulled the young man up, the Infected were around two-thirds of the way up the ladder. Wallace blew the head off of the first Infected with a well-aimed shot from his Mossberg, and then stepped aside to allow Ted to clear the ladder with his TDI Vector submachine-gun. After a short burst of the compact weapon, the Infected climbing up the ladder were all taken care of.

Wallace and Ted grasped the top rung of the ladder and heaved, yanking it up one rung at a time. They did this quickly, before any of the oncoming Infected had a chance to climb up. The horde of the creatures-easily over a hundred of them-quickly lost interest in the survivors, who were now out of their reach, and splayed out, wandering aimlessly around the street. Lev still continued to snipe a few of them, but the rest paid no heed.

"Much obliged," the lead survivor thanked Wallace and Ted. "I was sure those things had us, back there."

"Don't mention it," Wallace replied, gazing at the other man. He was a somewhat older, large, well-muscled man with almond-shaped eyes, tanned skin, and short, grayish hair. He looked about as Native American as they came. Now that Wallace had the chance to look at the man properly, he quickly remembered where he had last seen him. "You...you were in that foodstore near General Hospital, right after the Air Force pounded it..._Chief_; that's what everyone was calling you..." the policeman murmured. "Yeah, I'm sure of it, now."

"I thought I recognized you, as well," the Native American man replied. "You were one of the cops who we let in, weren't you?"

"Yeah, that's right. How did you escape without getting bitten?" Wallace asked the man somewhat impatiently.

"I hid in the freezer for eight hours," the man replied nonchalantly. When he noticed the incredulous look on Wallace's face, he quickly added, "Oh, the freezer wasn't actually _working;_ the power had gone out after the hammerdown. I was just hiding inside...I guess the creatures could not sense me in there. Eventually they dispersed and I sneaked out."

"An' who the hell might you three be?" Ted grunted at the other three survivors who Chief had been with. One by one they introduced themselves. The blonde woman's name was Hannah, and she had been an unemployed street artist in the old world. The black woman's name was Trish and she was some sort of banking accountant. The young man's name was Martin; he was some sort of handyman. All of them were armed with what looked like Uzis or some other type of SMG, with the exception of Chief, who held what looked like a Desert Eagle.

"Mind my asking where you managed to find guns like those?" Wallace gestured at the newcomers' weapons.

"Had a little run-in with a street gang," Trish, the black woman, replied. "Bastard thugs took all the food and supplies we had and left us to die. We followed them downtown, and..." she faltered, as if the rest of the story was too painful to recall.

Martin picked up the slack. "They were all slaughtered by some sort of...thing..." the handyman's brow furrowed as he tried to describe it. "It was an Infected...but _not_. It walked on its fists, not its legs...and it was _huge_...twice our height, easily. Its whole upper body-chest, arms, shoulders, neck...it was like it had taken a whole swimming pool of steroids. It's muscles were gigantic...those street thugs tried shooting it, but it was practically bulletproof! It tore through those bastards, killed them all in less than a minute."

"It was like a tank..." Chief murmured.

"Yeah, like a tank," Martin echoed, nodding in agreement. "So we wait for it to leave, and then we go in and steal those thugs' weapons from their corpses."

"Sounds like you fellas have had yourselves quite an adventure," Wallace remarked.

"We could have done without," Hannah muttered.

"Yeah, I hear ya," Wallace chuckled. He then extended his hand to the new survivors, introducing himself. "I'm Jerome Wallace, by the way…used to work on the 13th Precinct."

"Good to see some _normal_ sons of bitches out here," Martin grunted, dusting himself off and rising to his feet.

"Ain't that the damn truth," Wallace chuckled in response.

As the newcomers got settled down, catching their breaths and nursing their injuries, Lev came down and helped treat them. "This is kindergartner's play for me," the medical intern said as he disinfected a cut on Hannah's arm.

"So, you men come here looking for a boat?" Chief asked after a few minutes, adequately determining the reason behind the presence of Wallace's group.

"_Mm-hm,_" the officer nodded, leaning back against one of the railings. "We have two more men back at one of the warehouses further on down the riverbank…figured we'd find a boat here, take it back to the warehouse, pick up our friends, and head south for Pittsburgh."

"Pittsburgh?" Chief cocked a curious eyebrow. "What's down there, if you don't mind my asking?"

"According to a radio we picked up, a force of Pennsylvania National Guard are holding out down there," Wallace explained. "If we can make it there before they fall back, we'll be in a much better fix than we're in right now."

"Don't matter none, though," Ted interrupted, his bristly beard twisting in harmony with his grimace. "All the boats here are charcoal. Ain't no way for us to get outta this city."

"Well, don't go and sign our death certificates _quite_ yet," Chief interjected. "Keep them out and handy, sure…just don't sign them yet."

"What, I don't suppose you have a boat in your back pocket?" Wallace gave a resigned chuckle. "Because I don't think-"

"Well I don't know about my back pocket," Chief shrugged. "But the power plant in the industrial strip a mile upriver might."

The officer was instantly curious. "Say what, now?"

"There's a coal power-plant owned by Exelon Power Corporation a mile north of here, right on the bank of the river," Hannah explained. "We just came from there…there's a barge tethered on one of its loading docks. The whole damn place was swarming with Infected, though…we would have gotten slaughtered."

"But if you boys are willing to join us…?" Trish suggested, her voice trailing off.

"You want us to help you bust into a power plant?" Lev took a deep breath. The medical intern was, out of the whole group, the least motivated to head _toward_ a place where lots of Infected were.

Wallace's only outward reaction was to slightly raise one of his eyebrows. A corner of his mouth also flickered in a faint ghost of a smile. "Take ten minutes, everyone, then pack up. We're heading north."

* * *

_Am I just delaying the inevitable? Well, of course I am; every second we continue to breathe as normal, uninfected citizens of Earth, we are delaying the inevitable. But still…this is the first time we have actually had a chance to get out of this city. When we made for the marina, we did so _hoping_ there was a boat we could find…now, we're heading right into the thick of things again, but this time we _know_ there is a way out._

_I just hope all of us make it out. After losing Carson…I don't want to lose another friend._

_**J. W.**_


	13. Chapter 12: Power Plant

Chapter Twelve: Power Plant

It felt good to be on the move again.

Well, no; that wasn't right. It felt good to be on the move while heading towards a light at the end of the tunnel. For the past two weeks, Jerome Wallace and his fellow survivors had been on the move _without_ that light at the end of the tunnel...but now that light had just flared into existence. It had come in the form of a barge that was supposedly moored at the docks of a nearby powerplant.

"So what the hell is a barge doing at a powerplant, anyway, huh?" Ted grunted in curiosity. "Not complainin' that it's there, don' get me wrong...but still. Powerplant ain't the first place I'd look for a barge."

"It's a coal power-plant, owned by PECO energy...well, I suppose it's Exelon Corp. now, with the merger back in 2000..." Martin started to trail off. For a moment, Wallace couldn't help but wonder if the man had some form of ADD, but Martin quickly yanked himself back on-topic. "We passed by it a couple of days ago; that was when we saw the barge...but the whole damn place is seething with these zombie things, and we didn't have enough people to mount an assault."

"They're still using coal powerplants up here?" Lev sounded surprised.

"Mm-hm," Wallace nodded, finally remembering the place which Martin was referring to. "That plant is old and due for decommissioning, soon...but the Green Flu got to it first, it seems."

"Green Flu got to _everything_ first..." Hannah grumbled.

The seven survivors gingerly made their way through the city. Instead of plowing straight through the heart of the business sector-that would have been suicide-they hugged the bank of the river. This was the industrial sector of the city; the buildings were a lot larger, but much more spaced out. It was a very organized, uniform environment; structures placed in neat rows and columns-mostly storage facilities, electrical complexes, or warehouses-with roads running through all of them.

The power plant was in the middle of the whole place. They could see the tips of its smoke stacks peeking over the nearer buildings, as if they were gazing down and passing judgment over the survivors. Even as more and more of the compound came into view, its level of infestation wasn't immediately apparent, but Wallace knew that it had to be choc-full of Infected, otherwise the four other survivors would have simply taken the barge, and the two groups would never have met.

A few dozen Infected could be seen scattered and spread out, ambling aimlessly along the powerplant's many catwalks and tiers. Wallace could only speculate how many of them were _inside_ the facilities. He already had a nasty feeling that the number would not be low.

"So where, if you don't mind my askin', did you boys come from?" Trish, the middle-aged black woman with the Uzi, asked, breaking the silence for the first time in a while.

"We're residents," Wallace answered her. "One of our friends back at our safehouse is a businessman from Boston, but everyone else is a native."

Martin raised an eyebrow at that. "You mean to say that you guys have survived in this city this whole damn time?"

Wallace nodded. "I was even at one of the hospitals where the Infected broke loose; we've been movin' from district to district ever since. And you?"

"Found each other in Yonkers," Hannah, the blonde woman, replied. "Except for Chief, there," she nodded to the large Native American. "He was already here when we found him. We managed to drive down from New York, but our gas tank hit zip just outside of this city."

"Why th' hell'd ya come _into_ this place?" Ted grunted questioningly. "We been tryin' ta get the hell _out_ all this time."

"We ran out of gas," the blonde woman repeated herself, drumming her fingers impatiently on the barrel of her SMG. "What were we supposed to do? _Walk_ all the way down to the Mason-Dixon line? In case you haven't noticed, there's nothing between here and Pittsburgh but a lot of empty forest."

"I'm sure those forests are teeming with Infected, anyway," Martin surmised. "I mean, with all the crap spreading from places like Erie, Pittsburgh, Harrisburg, Philly, Allentown, Reading, _here_…the Alleghany Forest is smack-dab in the middle of all that shit."

"It's not just PA," Wallace reminded the handyman. "All the eastern seaboard is pretty well infested."

"Pennsylvania got slammed the worst, though," Lev said. "After all, the epicenter of the whole damn outbreak isn't too far southeast of here."

Chief, who usually didn't say much, gave a simple shrug, saying, "Once we get on this river, it will no longer matter."

"Amen to that…" Ted grumbled.

"There's the entrance up ahead," Trish nodded to the large entrance complex of the powerplant, comprising of the access road, and the chain-link gate, the entry booth right behind it. The orange and white access-denial bar was still leveled down across the drive, still barring imaginary vehicles from entry.

The harsh _crack_ of Lev's hunting rifle echoed down the street. Wallace was just barely able to catch a glimpse of an Infected on one of the more distant and high up catwalks keel over, blood spurting from where its head had used to be.

Wallace and Martin were the first to reach the chain-link gate. "My first instinct was to shoot the locks off," the handyman explained, "but I figured there's probably an alarm of some sorts rigged up for something like that. I'd rather not risk it."

"No problem…" Wallace, who had had his fair share of chasing fleeing suspects down streets and over fences, murmured. "Good thing this here fence is chain-link. Easier to climb. Who here's the best climber?"

"Me, most likely," Chief rose a hand. "I was always the fastest up the climbing walls back during my boot camp days."

Wallace made a mental note to ask Chief about what unit he had served in later. For now, they just needed to get over this fence. "Alrighty, then. You and I will give everyone else a boost up. Then you give _me_ a boost up…and if you're as good as you let on, you should be able to get up and over yourself."

"I'm _better_ than I let on," Chief grinned, cracking his knuckles and settling down to his knees. Wallace joined him.

Trish went over first, stepping into the improvised platform made by Chief and Wallace's arms, and reaching up to grab the links near the top of the fence so that she didn't have so far to climb. Ted, Martin, and all the rest followed her one by one. There were a few sporadic bouts of gunfire as the other survivors no doubt took out nearby Infected.

Once everyone else was over the gate, Chief gave Wallace a leg up. As the burly African-American hit ground on the other side, Chief jumped up and scaled the chain-link fence himself.

"This had better be one hell of a good barge we're goin' after…" Ted murmured, casting quick, anxious glances up at the looming towers and structures of the power plant. "I really don't like the looks o' this place."

"You and me both, brother," Wallace clapped the coalminer's shoulder as he walked past. "So, uh…how do we get to the barge from here?"

"That's the thing," Martin sighed. "The loading area where the barges would drop their cargo are on the other side of the facility, in the storage yard. We can't get there from here; this is just the entrance sector, and it's closed off from everything else. We have to go through the plant."

"You're shitting me."

"'Fraid not."

"So, what exactly can we expect in there?" Lev asked. "Turbines? Narrow, twisting hallways?"

Martin shook his head. "No. Actually, the first area that we have to go through is mostly office space for the administrative staff. Then we'll have to take a lift down to the furnaces, where we can take the catwalks through the chambers; that should bypass most of the Infected on that floor. From there, we can make our way out onto the docks."

"Why couldn't we just swim to the damn thing?" Ted asked next, raising another valid point.

"Because we'll need everyone we can spare to hold off the hordes while the barge gets underway. Swimming in will mean splitting us up," Martin replied. "That, and we don't exactly want our ammo getting wet, do we?"

"Aight, aight, jus' askin'…" Ted held up his hands, unslinging the Vector from his shoulder and sliding in a fresh clip.

The survivors reached the front entrance, which comprised mostly of a brick wall with tinted glass doors. Wallace tried the handles, but the doors were locked. Reverting to the usual Plan B, the police officer simply smashed the door in with the butt of his Mossberg.

The door spiderwebbed and imploded into a thousand small shards, raining down onto the tiled floor beyond. Wallace reached around, quite unnecessarily, and unlocked the door, pushing the empty frame inward.

The seven survivors stepped inside. There was a front receptions desk and a few chairs in the small room, but the only other noteworthy feature was the double-doors leading into the administrative space beyond. There were stairs leading to access hallways that would take us directly to the plant, but the survivors wanted to avoid those for now.

"Who's taking point?" Wallace asked as the survivors stopped outside the double-doors.

Chief cocked his desert eagle and took his place at the doors. "I'll take this one."

Wallace hefted his Mossberg, aiming it at the doors. The other survivors did likewise, getting their respective weapons ready. Lev, whose hunting rifle wasn't much use in these tight spaces, shouldered his rifle and pulled out what appeared to be a large kitchen knife.

Lev noticed the others giving him odd looks at his choice of weapon and shrugged them off. "Japanese-made," he said, twirling the knife around his fingers. "Don't need to be an expert to use one of these…stab an Infected in the right place, and they go down just like any other man. You don't need headshots for them."

"Long as you know what you're doing," Trish shrugged. "Just watch where you wave it."

"Everyone ready?" Wallace asked. When all he got in response were nods, he turned and raised his shotgun, giving Chief a nod of his own.

Chief took a deep breath, then stepped forward and kicked the double-doors, right in the center where the two doors met. The locking mechanism was snapped and the doors swung open, revealing a large expanse of office cubicles. The walls dividing the cubicles were around chest-height, so it was easy to see over them.

The doors, as they swung in, actually hit the nearest Infected in the back, sending it stumbling forward. Chief raised his desert eagle and fired once, blowing the top of the Infected's head off.

At least twenty or thirty more Infected were scattered throughout the space. Initially at the sound of the doors getting kicked open, and now at the sound of Chief's gunshot, every single one of them whipped around, focusing their dull yellow eyes on the survivors edging into the room.

"Take 'em out!" Wallace ordered.

The rapid clatter of Ted's TDI Vector was the loudest as the coalminer sprayed the nearest trio of Infected, peppering them with lead.

Hannah, Trish, and Martin all had an assortment of Uzis and other SMGs, and they put those to good use. Wallace only killed two Infected with his shotgun, which had been able to sprint up close while Chief was reloading. All the rest were taken down by the others.

"Not off to a bad start, I'd say," Martin remarked as he slapped a fresh clip into his weapon. The others all gave varying levels of agreeing grunts and hums.

"Fan out, take it slow," Wallace ordered. "And watch your damn feet…make sure everything you walk past is dead. If you get bitten on the foot or ankle, it will be because you were suicidal and purposely allowed it, not because you were too stupid to walk past a live Infected without making sure it was dead."

To accentuate his point, Wallace drew his nightstick and brought it clubbing down onto the head of an Infected that was still moving, feebly clawing the air while the blood poured from the bullet holes in its chest. It fell back, no longer moving.

There was only one other surviving Infected, and it was quickly put down by Trish.

On the other side of the space were more doors which were already open. In this room was another set of double-doors that led to more office space, and a flight of stairs that went both up and down. Martin led the way down the stairs.

"You seem to know your way around this joint," Lev observed as he stepped down to the first landing. "You work here, or something?"

"Nope," Martin shook his head. "I'm from Yonkers, remember? But I used to work in a similar plant owned by the same company, and the layout is essentially the same."

Lev frowned, obviously not satisfied by the handyman's claim.

Martin shrugged. "There are hundreds of different kinds of cars out there, every one of them with their own little differences. Long as you can find the gas, brake, and steering wheel, though, you're good to go. Same thing goes for the layouts of these power plants."

As the survivors went belowground, the sunlight no longer illuminated their way, so they had to take out their flashlights.

Wallace had taped a flashlight to the barrel of his Mossberg a long time ago, anyway, so it was no issue for him. The powerful beam cut through the darkness of the hallway below. The survivors followed it a little ways, bagging another three Infected along the way, before coming to a lobby of sorts with elevators.

"This isn't the main way down, so it should be easier than taking the main corridors," Martin explained as he called one of the elevators. The survivors were left waiting for half a minute or so before the lift dinged and slid open.

"Pile in," Hannah gestured for everyone to follow her inside, taking her place at the panel. Wallace was the last to enter. After he walked into the lift, Hannah pressed the button Martin told her to press and the doors slid back shut.

"So…boot camp?" Wallace raised an eyebrow at Chief as the elevator started to descend. "You served?"

"In a way," Chief shrugged. "I flew re-supply runs during Desert Storm. Nothing major."

"_Mm_…" Wallace hummed.

"We jus' need some proper elevator music, and we'd be set," Ted chuckled. "Anyone got a banjo?"

"Could you be _any_ more stereotypical?" Lev asked the coalminer.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I could," Ted glared at the medical intern. "Contrary to popular belief, I brush my teeth every day, and when I make love, it ain't with blood relatives. Don' lecture me on stereotypes."

"We'll find you a banjo one of these days…" Wallace murmured. "Long as we find me a harmonica, too."

"Then we can all sit around a fire and sing Kumbaya," Lev grunted.

Ted gave the intern a sidelong glance as the elevator reached its destination. "Sounded an awful lot like Charles there, for a second."

A faint grin tugged at Wallace's mouth as he thought of their Bostonian compatriot. Right now, he was back in the warehouse a ways downriver with Henry, recovering from the bullet graze he had gotten a week ago from Lev when Wallace and company had chanced upon the young medical intern. Once they got the barge, they would head downriver and pick them up.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a dimly lit corridor. The survivors exited the elevator and turned left, passing by several smaller hallways and doors until they reached the end of the corridor, which ended in a T-junction. There was a metal door set into the opposite wall across from the corridor which the survivors were walking down, a yellow light mounted over the frame. The light wasn't on at the moment.

"Through there," Martin nodded at the door. "That's where the furnaces are."

"It gonna be hot?" Ted asked hesitantly as the survivors stacked up next to the metal door.

"No," Wallace shook his head. "This place stopped operating nearly three weeks ago, when the first cases of the Green Flu were starting to spring up. Those furnaces are inactive."

"Jus' as well…" Ted grumbled.

"My turn, Chief," Wallace moved around the burly Native American, placing a hand on the metal door's handlebar. He silently counted to three, then pushed the door open.

Immediately, all hell broke loose. The yellow light above the door started flashing, as did about a billion other similar lights scattered all throughout the vast furnace floor. A loud klaxon also started to blare throughout the facility, loud enough to raise the dead.

"What in the blue fuck is that?" Ted exclaimed, tightening his grip in his weapon.

"The staff must've had the whole damn place on lockdown when the Infection hit!" Martin shouted amidst a smattering of swearwords. "And this is a vital area of the plant; if a door is tripped, then the whole thing goes on-"

"Forget it; it doesn't matter!" Wallace interrupted. "Just run!"

The terrifying sound of several dozen Infected letting loose at the same time echoed through the large room. Wallace could only imagine the sheer number of Infected that the alarm would pull in from other parts of the power plant.

Martin set off down the catwalks, Trish hot on his heels. Muzzle flashes lit up the room even more as the survivors opened fire on the multitudes of Infected congregating on the floor below the suspended walkways. Many of the Infected were beginning to get wise, finding places where they could climb up and challenge the survivors directly.

Wallace raised his shotgun, about to blast away one of these Infected, when suddenly he felt something wet and sticky whip around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. His Mossberg fell to the floor of the catwalk with a loud _clang_.

"Officer!" Wallace heard Lev cry out.

"Gimme a hand, will ya?" Wallace shouted to the others before they ran too far away. The black policeman had no idea what the hell was wrapped around him, but he could see it extending a considerable distance across the room to a shadowy figure standing on another catwalk. "What the fuck _is_ this thing?" Wallace exclaimed as he tried to break the wet rope's grip.

"It's a tongue!" Martin shouted back.

"_What?_"

"I'll explain later!"

Lev crouched down next to him and quickly sliced through the wet, slimy tongue with his chef's knife. Wallace could almost hear what sounded like a raspy cry of pain as the coils fell away, freeing Wallace.

The policeman grabbed his shotgun and raised it in time to take out the Infected he had been aiming at before. Lev stepped forward and, with a single, fluid motion, slit the throat of the Infected behind it.

"Keep moving!" Trish was shouting. "Keep moving! Let's go, let's g-"

Suddenly, there was a deafening crash, followed by the screech of twisting metal. The catwalk lurched, tilting to the side. Then Wallace heard a bone-chilling roar coming from somewhere else in the furnace room.

A small part of the catwalk had been torn through. Wallace peered over the edge and saw the sparking remains of one of the huge pipes that usually transported the heat of the coal to the turbines above; it seemed to have fallen over the catwalks, tearing out the one section.

"Where's Trish?" Hannah was practically screaming.

"She's gone!" Chief shouted back.

"What the fuck happened?" Wallace had been too busy freeing himself from that…whatever it had been…to notice what had happened up ahead.

"Something fucking _threw_ that pipe into the catwalk!" Martin called over from the other side of the gap, catching Hannah as she jumped over. "It took out the place where Trish was standing!"

Wallace still gazed down at that giant pipe, searching in vain for some sign of the middle-aged black woman. There was none, however. She was gone.

Chief and Lev both jumped the gap, helped over to the other side by Martin. By the time Ted and Wallace made the jump, their side of the catwalk was starting to shift. Wallace made it okay, but Ted was thrown off-balance. Luckily, he managed to grasp the edge of the other side of the catwalk before he fell into the seething mass of Infected below.

"Gotcha!" Wallace and Chief grabbed the foulmouthed coalminer by the collar and arms, dragging him up and over the edge.

Their small victory was short-lived, however. There was another deafening roar, followed by a huge ruckus as a furnace was bashed to the side, sending coal shavings flying everywhere. Wallace trained his flashlight on the disturbance and nearly lost control of his bowels.

An Infected was lumbering towards their catwalk, but it was no normal Infected. This bruiser was at least ten feet tall. And it wasn't _just_ tall; it was proportionately wide to accommodate the height…muscles all over its body bulged to inhuman levels. It looked like the world's most buff bodybuilder times five. In fact, its upper body had grown so large and muscular that it had to walk on its tree trunk-like arms; its tiny legs flopped about uselessly below it.

The huge, mutated creature's sickly yellow eyes were fixated on the survivors and it gave another angry roar, its tongue lolling from its open mouth.

No one even shouted _run;_ the survivors simply took off after getting a single good look at the deformed monster.

"What the fuck _was_ that thing?" Ted started to ask, but he was cut off by Chief.

"Run now, talk later!" the burly Native American suggested.

There was another screech of twisting metal. Wallace barely had time to look before he saw the shape of another length of the heavy industrial pipe hurtling his way. The police officer grasped Ted by the collar and leaped forward, dragging the coalminer with him. Less than a second later, the pipe tore through the section of catwalk where Wallace and Ted had just been running over.

By the time Wallace and Ted were up and running again, the monster was below the newly-torn gap in the catwalk. It reached up, grabbing the edge of the metal walkway, trying to pull itself up. However, it was too heavy, and it just ended up dragging more of the catwalk down.

Wallace and Ted opened fire, peppering the monstrous Infected with lead, but it seemed to have no effect. "Fuckin' thing's bulletproof!" Ted swore.

"Bullet-_resistant!_" Martin corrected him. "Not bulletproof!"

Either way, it didn't matter. The survivors didn't have time to take the monster down. That, and the fact that they were fighting in an enclosed space didn't give them the mobility needed to effectively kill the thing, if such a feat were possible. Their only option was to keep on running.

"There's the emergency exit!" Martin pointed at the opposite wall of the room, which the survivors were getting pretty close to. "We're gonna have to get off this thing!"

"And how're we s'posed ta do that with all the shit down there?" Ted shouted, gesturing madly at the throngs of Infected below the catwalks. "Ask 'em nicely to let us pass?"

Wallace shook his head, having another idea. "Lev!" he called over to the intern. "Before we left the warehouse, you grabbed one of those smoke detectors! You still have it?"

Lev nodded, reaching into his satchel and digging around for a few seconds before pulling out a round white object. "Got it here!"

"Turn it on and throw it!"

That was one of the things Wallace and his compatriots had discovered during the week that they were holed up in the warehouse downriver; the Infected were attracted to loud noise, but they were even more acutely drawn to high-pitched noise, such as car alarms or—as they had found out—small smoke detectors.

Lev caught onto Wallace's reasoning and did as he was told, flicking the smoke detector into its testing mode where its alarm would start beeping and hurling it in the opposite direction of the door.

Because of the klaxon already blaring throughout the entire area, not all of the Infected were drawn to the smoke detector. The monstrous creature tearing down the catwalk was not affected by the rapid high-pitched beeping, either.

"_Down!_" Martin turned off the catwalk, taking one of the metal fire escape-style stairways down to the floor of the furnace room. The others were hot on his heels. Wallace, who brought up the rear, didn't bother to run down the final flight of stairs, instead simply vaulting himself over the railing.

The survivors hit the ground running, shooting at any Infected that came too close. Luckily, the smoke detector had drawn away enough of the creatures to allow the survivors some breathing room, but the pressure-cooker was still on high.

Martin shot open the doors which he had indicated and sprinted through. Daylight streamed in through exit. However, the moment Martin stepped outside, there was a loud screech and a dark form came flying out of nowhere, knocking Martin onto his back.

"Oh, fu-" Martin swore as the smaller creature brandished its claws and started to attack him by tearing into his stomach. "Get it off me!"

Chief crowned the dark form with a single shot from his desert eagle. The creature flopped back in a spray of blood. Chief helped Martin, who was bleeding profusely from his abdomen, to his feet.

The survivors found themselves outside, on the other side of the power plant, at the top of a semi-steep hillside sloping down to the bank of the river. They were surrounded by giant silos, which was where the coal was processed before being taken into the furnaces. It was brought to those silos via rubber conveyor belts, which Wallace saw as he looked up, stretching down to the storage yard at the bottom of the hill.

Infected started to stream out of the furnace floor, thirsting for blood. Many of them were felled by the survivors' gunfire as they made their way down the hill, but it barely made a dent in the tide.

The survivors were about halfway down when the gigantic muscular monster—Wallace decided to start calling it Muscles—burst out of the door, taking a good chunk of wall with it. It pounded the ground several times, roaring to the sky, before returning its gaze to the fleeing survivors. It pounded both fists to the ground one last time and set off down the hill after them.

The storage yard was simply a large open space with dozens of cargo containers full of coal, which had no doubt been unloaded from the sizable barge that was bobbing in the loading pen, which was basically a mini-canal that bisected the storage yard. A single barge could occupy the space, unload, and then move back out into the main river.

"Keep going!" Hannah shouted, though the survivors really didn't need to be reminded.

There were four gangplanks linking the barge to the loading dock, as well as the mooring lines. The survivors encountered a moderate crowd of Infected in the storage yard, but most of them didn't start pursuing Wallace and company until _after_ they had run past.

"Chief!" Wallace shouted over to the Native American, who was taking carefully-aimed shots at the pursuing Infected. "When we get to the barge, go straight for the bridge!"

"Got it!"

Chief was the first one over one of the gangplanks. As he crossed onto the barge, he sprinted down to the stern of the ship, leaped up the stairs and ladders all the way to the top, and kicked open the door to the bridge, ducking inside to get the engines started up.

Hannah was the next across, and she started running down the length of the barge, pulling up the other three gangplanks.

Wallace and Lev, while Chief got the engines started, quickly sprinted along the dock, undoing the mooring lines. The policeman cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at the approaching horde. The monstrous giant, Muscles, was in the thick of it all, pulping the normal Infected as it raged forward.

The two survivors gave up trying to undo the mooring lines and simply started shooting them off the posts.

Suddenly, there was a loud, wet _snick_ sound. Martin cried out in pain as a slimy, wet tongue whipped around his torso, agitating the wounds given to him by the clawed Infected. It was the exact same kind of tongue that had snared Wallace back on the catwalks.. Ted, who had been supporting the other man, swore as Martin was torn from his grasp.

"Help me!" Martin pleaded as he was dragged back by the rope-like thing around his chest and stomach. Ted turned to go after him, but before the coalminer had taken two steps, the horde enveloped the handyman.

The Infected howled with bloodlust, biting, scratching, and tearing the helpless Martin. Lev tried to run over to help the man, but Wallace grabbed the medical intern by the shoulder, pulling him back. "He's gone, Lev! Get back onto the boat!"

Lev hesitated at first, but when he heard Muscles give another roar he followed Wallace's order and ran back across the gangplank.

Chief had gotten the barge's engines started. The large, flat boat was beginning to slowly slide towards the mouth of the loading canal and the open river beyond.

An Infected grabbed Wallace from behind as he sprinted after Lev, but the policeman brutally clubbed it in the face with the butt of his shotgun, bringing the weapon around and emptying a shell into the face of another oncoming creature.

Martin was still horribly alive, despite the horde of Infected quite literally tearing him apart. Wallace could hear the man screaming. However, when the Muscles reached the place where Martin was getting eaten alive, still ensnared by the slimy tongue, it raised both its massive fists and brought them smashing down.

Several Infected were pulped by the blow and Martin's screaming finally, mercifully, stopped. He was gone, too. Muscles could now add another survivor to its kill list.

Wallace and Ted crossed the gangplank at the same time, pulling the walkway up behind them before any of the Infected could follow. The Infected started simply jumping towards the barge, and some of them even made it, but Ted and Hannah took them out with their sub-machineguns, which were better suited for fighting at a range than Wallace's shotgun or Lev's knife.

Lev unshouldered his hunting rifle and brought the scope up to his eye, centering the sights on Muscles, which had finished bludgeoning what was left of Martin's corpse and had returned its attention to the barge.

Muscles brought its fists smashing down onto the concrete foundation of the storage yard, shattering the surface. It picked up the largest chunk of concrete and hurled it towards the barge. It struck the stern, just behind the bridge. Wallace swore, surveying the damage. If the bridge was hit like that, it was all over.

Lev squeezed the trigger and the hunting rifle gave a sharp _crack_. The tank-like Infected gave a howl of pain as the high-velocity round hit its chest, but it showed no signs of slowing down. Instead, it started to pick up another heavy chunk of concrete, lumbering forward to pitch it at the retreating barge.

The bow of the barge had cleared the loading canal of the power plant and was poking out into the open river. Not too much longer…

Lev fired again, but this time he did not aim for the creature's chest. This time, the round hit Muscles in the arm, tearing through its gigantic biceps. Muscles faltered, nearly dropping the chunk of concrete, but it was still able to throw it. However, the strength of the hurl was greatly diminished, so the concrete chunk didn't even reach the barge.

Lev emptied the rest of his clip into the area around Muscles's head. He didn't score a hit, but even Muscles couldn't ignore eight high-velocity rounds tearing into its back, chest, and shoulders. It howled in pain, pounding the ground in frustration as its prey slipped away.

By now, Chief had gotten the engines going as fast as they would allow in reverse, and the barge finally cleared the loading canal. Chief threw the barge into normal propulsion, which would start moving it forward. It took a little bit to stop the large boat from going backwards, and Chief used that time to correct the barge's course, backing out so that the bow was facing downriver. South—the direction the survivors wanted to go.

Another chunk of concrete splashed harmlessly into the water as Muscles threw a final parting shot at the barge as it got underway. The giant Infected remained at the riverbank, pounding the ground and roaring in frustration. Normal Infected were running this way and that along the docks, still seeking the prey that had just evaded them. Some even tried leaping into the river in pursuit of the barge, but they were unable to swim and quickly drowned.

Wallace looked away from the Infected, away from the power plant that had become the grave for two survivors.

Hannah sat quietly, leaning against one of the empty cargo containers still on the deck of the barge, a far-off look in her eyes. Wallace decided to talk to her later. For now, he was content to sit back and thank the heavens for escaping before he was reminded of what the cost had been.


	14. Chapter 13: Getting Underway

Chapter Thirteen: Getting Underway

The heavy, sticky, late-August heat had finally broken as the clouds opened up and loosed their insides upon the city. For the past week, the clouds had been growing darker and darker as they built themselves up into a formidable storm front.

Now, it had started to rain. The normally glassy surface of the river was now covered in the thousands of tiny ripple circles as the rain splashed into the water. A slight film of vapor hung over the surface of the water, and the light rain brought a calm, gray, mist-like veil over the city.

Wallace took a deep breath in through his nose, savoring the smell of the rain. As a child, Wallace had always loved the rain. He would always change into his swim trunks and run up and down the sidewalk, laughing as he sprinted through the deluge of water. Even on hot, sunny summer days, the kids who lived on his block would gather at the corner and open the nearby fire hydrant, messing around in the shower of water.

This was a calm rain; most summer showers were. However, Wallace could faintly hear thunder in the distance, so there was always the possibility that the storm might intensify. Until then, though, Wallace was content to remain standing at the very front of the barge and enjoy the rain as it was.

The policeman was still dressed in his riot gear from the clusterfuck at General Hospital. He frowned a little when it occurred to him that he had never taken it off since then…over half a month ago. The next time he came across a shower in a secure area, he would have to wash. He probably smelled more than a little pungent.

Of course, if everyone _else_ smelled equally bad, no one really noticed. Personal cleanliness was no longer a priority; it was now a treat.

Wallace opened his eyes, studying the northern shore of the river. Sure enough, the policeman recognized the warehouses lining the bank. The building which he, Lev, and Ted had holed up in was just a short distance away. The policeman gave a quick sigh and turned on his heel, heading down the deck of the barge towards the bridge.

The police officer passed by one of the empty cargo containers, where Hannah was lying asleep. Lev, who was sitting back against one of the container's walls, though, wasn't quite as asleep. He gave Wallace a slight nod as the policeman walked past.

Wallace climbed up onto the raised platform which the bridge was set up on. He could have gone into the cabin and taken the stairs up to the bridge, but he preferred to circle around to the very back of the barge, behind the cabin, and climbed one of the ladders up to the observation deck, which surrounded the outside of the bridge like the deck of a lighthouse.

Chief, who was still at the helm, gave Wallace a respectful nod as the policeman walked in. "Why do you prefer to stand out in the rain?" the Native American asked in a curious tone.

"I'm a rain-lover," Wallace replied, standing next to Chief at the front of the bridge. "Always preferred the rain to any other kind of weather…it's like nature's way of saying _relax_."

Chief gave a more or less agreeing hum. Ted, who was reclined in the radio station's chair, only gave a cynical snort.

"So, that warehouse we're stopping at? It's coming up on our starboard," Wallace pointed at his last safehouse. "Start bringing down our speed."

"Y'all get to meet our good buddy Charles, now," Ted chuckled.

"I take it this 'Charles' whom you keep referring to is not the most agreeable person?" Chief guessed. His query was more or less answered by another bout of laughter from the coalminer.

"Don't overshoot the warehouse," Wallace clapped Chief on the shoulder as he made his way back outside.

The policeman had taken off his skull-and-crossbones bandanna so that it wouldn't get too wet. As a result, he could feel the cool rain on his scalp, which had no hair to cover it. Wallace did not mind, though. His riot armor kept the rest of him dry.

"What are we slowing down for?" Hannah grumbled as she was woken up from her slumber by the change in the barge's engines.

"I left two men back at our last safehouse," Wallace explained to the blonde woman as he walked past the empty cargo container. "We're picking them up."

As Wallace kept on going, he heard Lev mutter a few choice oaths under his breath. Obviously, the medical intern wasn't too thrilled about being plunged back into the company of the man he had accidentally shot a week before. Charles would likely never let Lev forget his mistake.

Chief brought the engines down even more, sending them into a light reverse so that they would counteract the natural flow of the river. There were no moorings to secure the barge, so Chief would have to keep it in place manually.

Wallace drew his sidearm, cocked it, and fired a single shot at the warehouse. The round clanked off the metal loading door. "Henry!" the policeman called out. "_Henry!_ Get your crusty old white ass out here; I ain't waiting all day for ya!"

There was silence for half a minute, then a low, mechanical whir as the door rolled open like a garage. Chief maneuvered the barge until it was flush against the warehouse as the loading doors opened the rest of the way, revealing two men—an older, gray-haired man with a bushy mustache, and a taller, balding man with a frizz of brown hair around the fringes of his head, wearing a tattered white suit.

"Henry, Charles," Wallace gave both men a quick nod. "Welcome aboard."

Charles made a face at the barge in general, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at the policeman. "_This_ was the best you could find at the marina?"

"No," Wallace admitted. "The best we could find at the marina was a half-sunken burned-out wreck, because the whole place got firebombed. We fought through an infested power plant and lost two good people to get this boat, so I would start showing some goddamn respect."

Charles gave a slight shrug. "I suppose, considering the circumstances, you could have done worse. Very well; if you think we can make it all the way to Pittsburgh on this heap of scrap metal, I'll trust your judgment."

Henry and Charles transferred their ammunition from the warehouse and onto the barge before coming aboard themselves. Once they were squared away, Wallace waved for Chief to get the barge back underway. The engines started to rumble, giving the large, flat ship the extra propulsion needed to start sliding down the river at a reasonable speed.

"About time you boys showed up, too," Henry was saying as Wallace led him and Charles over to the empty cargo container which Lev and Hannah were holed up in. The aging man ducked into the container and out of the rain, followed closely by the Bostonian. "I don't know if you've noticed, but the Infected out there are startin' to get pretty screwy…like they're mutating, or something along those lines."

"How's your injury, Charles?" Wallace gestured to Charles's side, where the Bostonian had been shot by Lev earlier in the week, as he sat down on one side of the cargo container.

"Scarred over, thank you very much for asking," Charles gave a smile that didn't reach his eyes, casting Lev a dirty glare as he absent-mindedly traced a finger around the bullet hole in his suit jacket. Lev didn't meet his gaze.

"So you guys ran into those wacked-out Infected, too?" Lev asked, directing his question more towards Henry than to Charles.

"Well…" Henry pursed his lips as he considered his answer. "Well, we didn't exactly run into them. _Observed_ them, more like; we weren't stupid enough to pick a fight with them by ourselves. I can only assume you had a few run-ins yourselves?"

Wallace gave a low grunt. "You can say that again…came across a small kind of Infected with claws that can jump long distances…a particularly weird specimen with ridiculously long tongues that can snare and strangle victims…"

"Yeah, I was meaning to ask you about those," Lev said to Hannah. "How the hell can they fit those tongues inside their mouths? And where does all that smoke come from?"

The blonde woman shrugged. "Does it really matter how?"

It was Lev's turn to shrug. "I suppose not…just curious, though."

"Did you see any of the real ugly ones that spit acid at you?" Henry asked. Charles made a sound of disgust under his breath. Obviously, the Bostonian hadn't considered them attractive.

"Nope," Wallace shook his head, considering himself lucky for having missed them. "But we _did_ run into this one Infected about the size of the Empire State Building, with muscles to match…bastard killed two of her people," Wallace nodded to Hannah.

"Trish and Martin…rest in peace…" she muttered.

"We saw something like that," Henry nodded, drawing his jacket tighter around himself. "Ten or so feet tall, looked like a mutant bodybuilder on steroids crossed with King Kong? Yeah, we saw one of those things thundering up the street past the warehouse just a few hours after you left for the marina…you're lucky it was heading in the opposite direction."

"Damn things are practically bulletproof…" Wallace sighed, rising back up to his feet. "I forget how many rounds Lev fired into the bastard, but it just kept on going like the fucking Energizer Bunny."

"They're not bulletproof, though; they _do_ go down," Hannah said. "Just before I hightailed it out of Yonkers a while back, I watched a group of soldiers kill one of them."

Wallace, who had been stepping out of the cargo container, turned back around, his curiosity piqued. "How?" he asked. After all, it would be handy to know any possible weaknesses these hulking towers of muscle possessed should they encounter another in the future.

"Well, they…" Hannah's voice trailed off and her brow furrowed in a light frown as she recalled what had actually happened. "Uh…they were shooting at it, and, uh…well, I think the M1-Abrams that was with them did most of the work. Never mind."

"Oh wonderful; these creatures _can_ be killed!" Charles gave a long sigh of relief. "All we need to do the job is an M1-Abrams main battle tank, courtesy of the United States Army. That shouldn't be too hard to find; there're bound to be dozens just conveniently lying around on the streets. Maybe we should all just…"

Wallace ducked out of the cargo container, stepping back into the rain, leaving before Charles could get on a roll. The police officer slowly ambled back towards the stern of the barge.

Chief had shut down the engines just a few minutes ago, depending on the current of the water to carry them down downriver. Once they got out of the city and reached the Alleghany River—which ran all the way down southwest to Pittsburgh—the going would be even faster. But for now, it would be prudent to conserve on fuel.

Wallace climbed up onto the observation deck around the bridge of the barge and ducked inside. He didn't stay in, though. Instead, he grabbed and threw on a clear plastic poncho, and then ducked back outside with one of the folding chairs, choosing to recline at the edge of the observation deck. He sat right above one of the access ladders, where there was no railing in his way.

The police officer watched the gray buildings of the city trudge on by as the barge made its way downriver. He could see individual Infected wandering along the shores of the river. At one point, he even spotted a horde of the creatures sprinting down a nearby street.

Not that any of it mattered, anymore. The survivors were safe on the barge, as the Infected could not swim. All they had to do was wait until they made it into Pittsburgh, where the Pennsylvania National Guard apparently was holding out.

Wallace sighed as he watched the city slide by, block by block. He had been born there, spent his childhood and teenage years there. After graduating from Penn State University with a degree that served him no purpose, he then graduated from the police academy and returned to his home city to join the force. He had a lot of memories and experiences here…and now he was leaving, unlikely to return for a long time, if ever.

Wallace had lived there for practically his entire life, and he had grown to enjoy the city to the point where he figured he was going to spend the rest of his life there without ever leaving.

But after just these past two weeks, Wallace wouldn't mind if he never set foot there again, and all it took to change his mind was a little apocalyptic virus.


	15. Chapter 14: Shore Party

Chapter Fourteen: Shore Party

"_What the hell do you mean we have to go ashore?_" Charles snapped. The Bostonian then clamped his mouth shut before he could descend into slightly more colorful profanity. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and repeated himself, albeit in a calmer and less derogatory manner.

"We're relying on the river's currents to keep taking us south; we don't need to make a refueling run," Lev agreed. "What gives, Officer?"

Jerome Wallace sighed, running a hand over his bare scalp. He had expected resistance to this announcement even before he was able to explain his reasons…and he was certainly getting his lion's share.

Luckily, Chief came to the policeman's defense. "Fuel is not our problem," the burly Native American declared.

"Well what, pray tell, _is_ our problem, then?" Charles wasted no time getting right to the heart of the issue.

"Our problem is that the currents are a lot slower than normal," Wallace answered. "We're still days away from Pittsburgh, and because we're moving _slower_ than expected…we're about to run out of food."

"We don't need to resupply for that," Charles countered, stepping over to Lev and gesturing to him like he was Exhibit A. "I say we kill and eat this asshole over here, before he goes and does something stupid like shooting one of us in the stomach. _Again_."

"Hey, you know what? Fuck you!" Lev pushed Charles away. "I said I was sorry, alright?"

"Aw, lay off the kid, Chuck," Ted stepped up to Lev's defense, wiping his nose on a dirty rag. "It was only a scratch, ya know."

"First, don't ever call me _Chuck_ again, you inbred pile of excrement," Charles shot Ted a withering glare, "and _second;_ the only reason it was just a scratch is because of his obvious piss-poor accuracy with a long-ranged weapon. His only defense in that case would be that he is utterly incompetent."

Lev's eye twitched once. "Do _you_ want to try and shoot this thing? Have you any idea how-"

Jerome Wallace watched his fellow survivors argue with each other like a pack of butt-hurt third-graders. Were these really the people he was supposed to make it all the way down to Florida with? The policeman couldn't see how they'd make it out of _Pennsylvania,_ let alone all the way down the east coast.

"Aight, I need everyone to shut the hell up! _Now!_" Wallace bellowed, drowning out everyone else. "We're not going to reach Pittsburgh until the end of the week at this rate. Unless we want to roll into the city looking like we just came through the Potato Famine, we need to resupply. Complain all you want, but it's something that has to be done."

"And where are we going to find food?" Hannah, the blond-haired woman who'd joined Wallace's group with Chief, interjected. She glanced at both shores of the Alleghany; there was nothing but trees, trees, and more trees out there.

"Chief told me we'd be coming up on a town called Ford City in less than an hour," Wallace replied. "We should be able to find supplies there."

"Well, obviously we'll get them from a town," Hannah rolled her eyes. "I mean, do we have a real plan when it actually comes to…you know…going into town and bringing the supplies back? In case you haven't noticed what's been going these past couple weeks, the town probably won't be deserted."

Wallace's expression didn't change, though he knew that Hannah brought up a valid point. Still…this was one of those situations where even the most plausible logic or argument had to bow down to reality. "Some of us will stay and guard the barge, and the rest of us are going in armed to the teeth. If there are Infected waiting for us, we'll blow 'em all to hell."

"Count me in!" Ted's face split in a wide, crooked, yellow-toothed grin. "I'm gonna die of boredom if I stay on this here boat a second longer."

Charles started muttering under his breath, again. He'd been doing that more and more, lately…usually whenever Ted spoke. That was most likely not a coincidence.

"Who stays and who goes, then?" Lev asked.

"Chief will stay in charge of the boat," Wallace declared, exchanging nods with the burly Native American, who was standing silently behind everyone else. "Henry, I want you to stay, too. Between you and Chief, you should be able to safeguard the barge. Lev, how are your medical supplies looking?"

The medical intern gave a light shrug. "I'm a bit low on anti-septic, but otherwise we're good. Well, I could always use some SAM splints, too, but you probably won't find any of those. Or a defibrillator—one of the small, portable ones."

"We'll keep our eyes open," the police sergeant said to him. "I want you to stay here, though. I'm not risking our only doctor on a food run."

"I'm not a doctor," Lev reminded the policeman for at least the twentieth or thirtieth time. "I'm just an intern…how many times do I have to remind you guys?"

"You're closer to a doctor than anyone else here…_Doc,_" Henry pointed out, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That gains you the title."

"Well, that's that," Wallace gave one last nod. "Charles, Hannah, Ted; you're all with me. We'll go in, find the supplies we need, and get the hell out. Straight and simple."

Charles frowned slightly, not happy at having been 'volunteered' to go into the town, but decided to let the matter pass. Even he had to admit that complaining would not help matters. If he ever wanted the other members of the group to help him in a time of need, he knew he'd have to pull his own weight.

The Bostonian took his leave and headed back onto the bridge of the large, flat-topped barge, where he kept his weapon. He pulled the top off one of the benches and pulled his AR-15 assault rifle out from the compartment, along with the small satchel that he used to carry his ammunition.

It was a painfully finite amount of ammo, though, and Charles was aware of this. During his time spent recuperating in that warehouse after accidentally getting shot by Lev, he'd found a short, sturdy rod of steel pipe. He had then taped up one of the ends so that it could be easily gripped, turning it into an effective truncheon.

Charles slipped the pipe into his belt, hung the satchel over his shoulder, and slung the assault rifle across his back. As he gathered his gear, Chief entered the bridge and took the controls of the barge once more. He and Ted usually worked in shifts, trading off control of the barge every few hours.

The burly Native American glanced at the Bostonian as he grasped the helm. "We won't reach Ford City for another half hour. What's your rush?"

Charles gave a light shrug. "Perhaps being caught in the collapse of civilization has me a bit on edge. It's hard to be certain."

"Can't argue with you there, though the sarcasm was—as always—unnecessary."

Charles packed away the rest of his gear and headed for the bridge's exit. Before he reached it, he hesitated and looked back at Chief. "We've been in each other's company for several days, now, and I never caught your name."

"Victor," Chief replied. "Victor Thorpe."

Charles frowned. "Not a very Indian name," he remarked.

Chief's expression didn't even change, suggesting that this wasn't the first time he'd heard such comments on his name. "When you get killed by the Infected, you're welcome to take it up with my parents."

Charles barked with laughter, stepping out of the bridge. It was still raining lightly outside—ever since the group had gotten out of the city further north, the weather had been squirrelly. The heavy rain from last week had stopped. The cloud cover had even broken two or three times, but that was it. For the vast majority of the time, it was dark and gray.

The rain showers had been off-and-on since the last cloud break. Right now, though, it was spritzing, and it was just as likely to intensify as it was to stop.

Charles wore a clear plastic poncho over his white suit. What was _left_ of his suit, at least…it had more than its fair share of rips and stains, now, but the Bostonian refused to wear anything else.

Wallace kept his gear in one of the open, empty cargo containers that littered the flat surface of the barge. He usually slept in that container, as well, along with Henry. He picked up his trusty Mossberg—which he had used ever since his precinct had been sent to General Hospital, all those days and weeks ago.

Everything about Wallace's life as a police sergeant, as a citizen of his home city…it all seemed like a hazy dream, now. Strange how a lifetime of experiences can be rendered completely and utterly irrelevant after only a couple weeks of surviving an apocalyptic virus.

The policeman made sure the shotgun was loaded and slung it over his shoulder. He had extra slugs in his belt pouches, but he'd have to use them sparingly. Ammunition was running dangerously low.

Wallace holstered his pistol, then slid his nightstick into his belt on the other side of his sidearm. Satisfied that he was ready to roll, he gave a low grunt and walked out of the cargo container.

To tell the truth, Wallace's feelings about making the supply run were deeply mixed. His emotions, that is, not his logic. Logically, he knew they had no choice; it was make the supply run, or starve. No, this was from the standpoint of his being relieved to get off the boat for a little while…but also his hesitance at strolling into another town that was no doubt filled to the brim with Infected.

There was a light mist that had settled over this stretch of the Allegheny River. Out of the mist, on the left-side (eastern) bank, buildings began to emerge. Those were the suburbs to the immediate north of Ford City, Chief told Wallace when asked.

Wallace pointed to the small docks extending out into the water from the homes situated on the riverside. Normally, they'd be used for small motorboats, canoes, kayaks, or rowboats…but none of those boats remained. "See if you can set us alongside some of those docks, Chief."

"This isn't Ford City, remember," Chief reminded the policeman. "These are suburbs; you won't find much here in the way of supplies."

"We can make our way into Ford City on foot. I'd rather you kept the barge here rather than right next to town," Wallace replied. He opened one of the smaller compartments near the controls and pulled out two of the barge's hand-held radios, which would customarily be used by the ship's crew…but Wallace was sure the crew wouldn't mind.

Chief gave a nod. "Sounds good."

Wallace headed out of the bridge, tossing Chief one of the radios. "If I need you, I'll buzz."

"I'll be listening!" Chief called after him.

As requested, Chief brought the barge as close as he could to the residential docks so that Wallace and company could cross over to land without having to wade through the river. He dropped the anchors so that the large boat wouldn't continue downriver and leave the shore party behind.

Wallace dropped down onto one of the docks, relishing the sound and feel of solid wood under his feet. It was a relief to hear something other than the dull clank of metal every time he took a step.

Charles didn't share in the sentiment. He would have been content to wait out the rest of the day in his comfy little cargo container. Instead, he had 'volunteered' to wade right into a population center to get the food supplies the group needed—and if that wasn't bad enough, he now learned that the policeman wanted them to _walk_ the whole way.

Ted had a more simple-minded approach to the whole thing; his desire to stretch his legs and get off the boat for a while, combined with his newfound love of firing guns, gave this supply-run the potential to be a pleasant outing for him. And Hannah…well, no one could really tell what she was thinking.

"We'll need to get you two something for close-quarters," Wallace said to Hannah and Ted as the group stepped off the dock and onto a concrete walkway leading up the incline and out onto the first street of the suburbs. The homes to which these docks belonged were located on the other side of the street.

"Yeah, my ammo's about to hit rock bottom," Ted nodded in agreement.

Hannah gave a nod as well. "Let's make a quick stop in one of the houses, then, before we head into town."

The four survivors trudged up the concrete path and onto the street. The asphalt was darker than usual with the rainfall, and the mist prevented the survivors from seeing very far away. Wallace was grateful that he still wore his boots from the police station as he splashed through puddle after puddle.

"_Water Street,_" Charles remarked, reading the street sign as he crossed the road with the others. "How imaginative."

Wallace walked straight up to the front door of the first house and tried to doorknob. The policeman had expected the door to be locked, but it swung open. The black sergeant pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes for a brief moment. That probably meant there were Infected in the house.

_Better make this quick, _Wallace thought to himself

"Are we really doing this just to find a lousy crowbar for the hillbilly to swing around?" Charles muttered as he rifled through the kitchen cabinets, checking for food.

"I need one, too," Hannah interjected, but Charles paid her no mind.

"Yep," Wallace grunted. "Melee weapons don't need reloadin'. Better to find 'em some blunt instruments here, right now, before we go into town, otherwise they'll blow all their ammo before we get back to the boat."

"I think I found mine," Hannah called over to the two men from the living room. Wallace glanced inside in time to see the blonde woman pull a baseball bat off of the mantel. The policeman didn't know why the previous occupants of this house would have a bat as a mantelpiece, but he didn't really care. All that mattered was that Hannah had found something she could use.

As Wallace headed back into the kitchen, he heard rustling upstairs, followed by a high-pitched growl. The policeman froze, his eyes flitting upward. He looked back down and glanced at Charles. "Did you…?"

"Uh-huh," the Bostonian nodded once, also looking up at the ceiling. Both men edged out into the front hall, where the staircase was located. The Infected upstairs were heading towards the stairs as well.

Just then, Ted tromped inside, a machete hanging loosely in his grip. "Y'all ain't gonna believe what I jus' found in the garage!" he exclaimed.

"Probably a machete," Charles rolled his eyes, muttering, "_Goddamned idiot_…" under his breath.

Ted's ruckus probably upset whatever was upstairs, because there was a shrill scream—accompanied by retching noises—and a pair of small Infected sprinted down the stairs. Ted was closest, and he turned to face them...only to freeze.

"Aw, shit, they're fuckin' kids!" Ted swore, backpedaling as the two small Infected lunged at him, arms outstretched, mouths wide open, teeth bared.

The coalminer nearly dropped his machete, startled at the sudden appearance of Infected, and thrown off even more by the fact that they had both been children of around six or seven years old. A boy and a girl. Twins, no doubt. This was somewhat new; despite running into thousands of the monsters back up north, the survivors had only very rarely encountered infected children.

Just as Ted managed to raise his machete, gunfire ripped through the house. One of the Infected, the boy, had its head and shoulder blown off, and the other was shot right through the chest, spattering Ted's coveralls with blood.

Ted swore again, leaning back against the wall, his hands still trembling a little bit.

Charles lowered his AR-15, which he had rapidly pulled from his back just in time to shoot the two little Infected. The Bostonian casually flicked the safety on and slung the rifle back over his shoulder. "Correction: they _were_ kids," he said.

"_Damn,_ you're a cold motherfucker…" Ted murmured, watching Charles with new eyes as the Bostonian made his way to the front entrance.

Charles frowned at the remark, rounding on the grungy ex-coalminer. "This _cold motherfucker_ just saved your sorry life," the Bostonian sneered.

"What the hell is going on?" Hannah hollered from the other room she stepped into the front hall and blinked at the sight of the two little, mangled bodies, and Ted covered in a blood spatter.

"Nothing," Charles replied. "Our friend Theodore was just demonstrating his nonexistent usefulness, yet again."

"Alright, that's enough," Wallace tried to quell the Bostonian. "Let's just keep moving."

"To hell with that," Charles retorted. "Next time, it could be _my_ life in _his_ hands. How do I know he won't just hesitate again?"

"I was startled, alright?" Ted protested. "I step into a house, and suddenly I got zombie kids jumpin' all over me… I've never seen a kid Infected, before, and it startled me. It won't happen again."

"It sure as shit _better_ not…" Charles growled.

"Charles, Hannah, make sure the road is secure," Wallace ordered, gesturing for them to head outside.

Charles frowned again. "Why should we-"

"Charles! Outside! Now!" Wallace barked, finally beginning to tire of the Bostonian's attitude.

The businessman muttered something else under his breath, but he turned and headed out the front entrance. Hannah followed him out.

As Ted turned to go, Wallace caught him by the arm. "Ted, we both know how Charles can get… Look, I need to be _sure_ I can count on you out here, because our mutual friend was right; next time, it could be you who has to save one of us…and if you hesitate, then people will die."

"You can count on me, officer," Ted nodded vehemently. "It won't happen again."

Wallace gave a small grin, extending a hand. "Prove it, then. Don't get any of us killed in Ford City, and I'll consider not leaving you behind," the black police sergeant said. "I'll be watching you like a hawk, though."

Ted shook Wallace's hand. "Let's go kick some ass, officer."

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Wow... I think it's been over half a year since I've updated this. Talk about dusting off old shelves... Well anyway, now that my giant Halo story is complete, I can finally devote some time to working on this one, again. I'm sorry about the super-long hiatus, and if you actually remember this story and are reading it right now, welcome back!_

_-TheAmateur_


	16. Chapter 15: Food Run

Chapter Fifteen: Food Run

It didn't take long for Wallace's shore party to reach Ford City. To be honest, the survivors didn't really know where the suburbs ended and the town itself began. The suburbs just seemed to bleed over into the actual town. Gradually, the buildings would grow closer and closer until Wallace and the others found themselves walking through street blocks.

There were many broken-down, burnt-out cars littering the streets. A good number of them had dents, or were even still in the positions they'd been in when they'd crashed into each other. Jerome Wallace could only imagine the mayhem that had taken place here.

Charles gave a light shrug as he regarded the destruction all around him. "We had it worse," he remarked.

The others cast him odd glances, but remained silent for the most part.

"I wonder what Pittsburgh'll look like…" Ted murmured.

Memories of the city they'd already escaped from came flashing back to the survivors, and they had to force them back down. The city had been complete and utter Hell, but it wasn't nearly as widespread or heavily populated as Pittsburgh, the second-largest city in Pennsylvania.

There didn't seem to be anyone left alive in this town. Back in the city, there had always been gunfire in the background—evidence of other bands of survivors trying to make ends meet while the world crumbled around them. Here, though, the only noise was the pattering of the rain. Everything else was silent.

"We hear anything new from that National Guard unit down in Pittsburgh, anyway?" Hannah asked.

Back in the city, Wallace and company had fought their way to the Sidewinder—a bar that Wallace had frequented before the outbreaks—to pick up a long-range radio. It wasn't able to transmit, yet, but it could receive transmissions perfectly. It had been from that radio that the survivors learned of a pocket of Pennsylvania National Guardsmen in Pittsburgh.

"Nothing for the past two days," Wallace replied. No one pressed the issue any further after that; no contact for two days already sounded bad enough, but no one—not even Charles—was willing to consider such a possibility.

The four survivors soon found themselves on a road called Third Avenue. It didn't exactly hug the riverbank, but it there weren't very many buildings on the river's side of the road. Third Avenue formed, more or less, the northwestern perimeter of the town.

Charles peered down the smaller streets that branched off from Third Avenue, running deeper into the town. "Anyone mind telling me why we aren't up to our jugulars in bloodthirsty ex-humans, right now?"

"They're out there…" Wallace murmured, trying to see deeper into the town as well. The rain prevented him from doing so. "I'd bet they're just scattered. There were still other survivors back in the city—our activity would cause the Infected to clump on us. Here, though…doesn't look like anything's been alive here for days."

"So they just wandered off, then?" Hannah asked.

"Well, they can't have gone too far," Wallace guessed. "Look at some of those burnt-down houses; there's still glowing embers in a few of them. This town wasn't overrun yesterday, but it definitely wasn't overrun last week."

"Well, they're attracted to sound, too, so we'd do well to avoid making loud noises," Charles declared. "Especially high-pitched noises…"

It was fitting that Charles would know a lot about what made the Infected tick. After all, when Jerome Wallace had found him, the Bostonian had been trapped in an overturned car, surrounded by dozens of Infected. They had all been attracted by the wailing car alarm.

The survivors continued down this street for several minutes. They didn't move particularly fast, either; they were content to move at a comfortable walking pace, keeping close eyes on the streets leading deeper into town, constantly vigilant for any kind of movement.

Wallace thought he'd spotted shadows or shapes in the misty rain several times, but whenever he tried to get a closer look, there was nothing.

The streets were not devoid of life, however. The survivors did encounter a few Infected…but only a handful.

Wallace was explicit in his orders to use firearms only as a last resort. In all of the cases where the survivors encountered an Infected on the road, one of them would simple get close, whistle, and kill it with their blunt object.

Hannah was the one who spotted a possible foodstore. She led the others down 15th Street—one of the smaller roads that ran deeper into Ford City, perpendicular to the Allegheny River.

Sure enough, on the intersection between 15th Street and _Fourth_ Avenue, a foodstore stood in all its glory, waiting to be plundered.

"_Foodland,_" Charles read the name of the market, which was displayed over the front entrance in large, red letters that would normally have been lit up. "Even more imaginative. Where do these people get their creativity from?"

The doors weren't locked. In fact, there _were_ no doors.

The front of Foodland had comprised mostly of a glass wall with motion-sensitive doors. Well, virtually that entire wall was gone. It now existed as thousands of small shards littering the ground.

Wallace picked his way through the piles of broken glass, wrinkling his nose at the stench that lingered in the foodstore.

The place was filled with bodies. Several dozen men, women, and a few children seemed to have tried to hole up in this place…maybe they'd had the same idea as the group of survivors Wallace had encountered back in the city. Only back in the city, _that_ foodstore didn't have an entire wall made out of glass.

The people here hadn't stood a chance.

"_Idiots_…" Charles muttered, looking at the carnage. He was probably looking at more blood in here than most people have seen in their entire lives. "Hopeless, dimwitted, _idiots_…"

"Come on, Charles, have some respect," Ted protested.

"What? They try to hole up against these things in a building with a wall made entirely of glass; would you rather I drink a toast to their intelligence?"

"No, I'd rather you just not be an asshole, for once in your life," the ex-coalminer grumbled.

"_Goldmine!_" Hannah proclaimed from the other side of the store. When Wallace and Charles went over to investigate, she pointed at a shelf of large-ish, plain white pouches.

"What's this?" Charles asked, picking up one of the pouches.

"They're MREs," Hannah explained. "Meals, ready to eat. All you need to do is dump them in boiling water, and _voila;_ instant dinner. These are used by the military for rations."

"Oh…oh yes, I remember, now," Charles nodded slowly. "I remember reading an article where three gourmet chefs were invited to taste-test these…whatever they are. None of them ranked higher than a _six_."

"Well, I never said they were fucking five-star restaurant meals," Hannah snapped. "They're compact, they're easy to make, and most importantly; they don't go bad. They have shelf lives of at least three years."

"That's all well and good, but how are we going to get boiling water?" Wallace asked.

"The barge has those small, portable stoves in the galley," the blonde woman answered evenly. "We can boil water with those."

Wallace was sold. "Alright, let's pack the damn things, then. Ted! Get the duffel over here!"

While Ted and Hannah started loading up the MREs, Wallace and Charles ventured deeper into the store and grabbed bottled water, crackers, orange juice mix, and a pair of water filters.

Ted's argument for the water filters was that bottled water would last only so long, and that these kinds of filters could pump water from a scummy puddle and still make it alright to drink. "These here are the real good quality ones, too," the coalminer said excitedly. "Kinda odd that they're sellin' 'em here in a market, though; I'd expect to find this kind o' crap in a camping store…"

"Did you find them on one of the shelves or kiosks?" Wallace asked the other man.

"Well, er…" Ted frowned. "No, I found 'em on the ground towards the back of the place."

"Then I'd suspect the filters originally belonged to _them,_ not the store," the policeman nodded to the sprawled bodies of the people who had tried and failed to make a safe haven out of this place.

"The stoves were probably theirs, too, then…" Ted murmured. "Goddamn shame. They probably could've made it if they'd only jus' kept movin'."

"Back in the city, I was found by a large group of survivors who took shelter in a place like this," Wallace said to Ted as the two men started heading back to the other side of the store. "We had kids with us, which would have slowed us down. A third of us were also sick, and we couldn't just leave them behind… Well, anyway, it turned out that these people had been sick with whatever the Infected had, and they turned. These people look like they didn't keep their sick members quarantined like we did, though."

"What happened to your group, then?" Ted asked. "If you kept the sick people locked up, why were you forced to leave?"

"A Tank crashed through the front entrance; that's why," Wallace sighed. "And the horde came rushing in…everyone was slaughtered. Chief and Henry are the only ones besides me who made it out of there alive." The policemen hesitated, and then added, "Well, there was another…but he's no longer with us."

Wallace and Ted dumped all of the goods they had collected into the duffel bag. The ex-coalminer zipper it up and heaved it onto his shoulder, taking a few moments to get his balance.

"Too heavy?" Hannah asked.

"_Naw,_" Ted shook his head. "I've carried heavier things than this back when I worked in the pit."

"If you say so…"

Wallace started to lead the way back to the entrance. "Let's get back to the boat; I don't want to be in this place a second longer than I have to."

"Amen," Ted grunted in agreement.

As Wallace stepped back over the glass shards and into the parking lot, he thought he heard a growl. The policeman tensed, his hand creeping onto the grip of his P220 sidearm.

"You hear it, too?" Charles asked, looking equally disturbed.

"Uh-huh," Wallace murmured, giving a barely perceptible nod. "Didn't sound like your average ghoul, though…"

"You think its one of those mutated specimens?" the Bostonian asked.

"I think-" Wallace started to say, but he got no further, for at that moment a dark, shadowy shape sailed down from the roof of Foodland. Wallace turned and saw it land in front of the foodstore before letting out a grating scream and leaping back into the air.

The dark shape slammed into Hannah, knocking the blonde woman flat on her back. Claws were bared, and the creature started tearing into her torso. She started screaming, trying to fight it off.

"Fuckin' shit," Ted dropped the duffel bag and seized the hunter by the waist, dragging it off Hannah. It twisted around and nearly bit Ted on the throat, but the coalminer sensed its intent and threw it to the asphalt.

Not finished, the hunter landed on its haunches and pounced again, this time right towards Charles. The Bostonian was ready, though. He brandished his short, steel pipe and swung at the hunter.

The hunter managed to dodge enough so that it was not brained by the pipe, but it did not escape unharmed. Charles's blow struck it in the shoulder. The hunter growled again as it felt bones crack.

The Special Infected stumbled several paces, but still refused to give up. It tensed for another pounce and spun back around…only to come face to face with a gun barrel.

Wallace fired his P220 twice, blowing the back of the hunter's head clean off. This had both good and bad consequences.

The good consequence: the hunter was dead and would no longer try to disembowel the survivors. The bad consequence: the bullets traveled through the hunter's head and shattered the windshield of a nearby car. A car that happened to have an active alarm.

The wailing car alarm began to echo further on down the street. Normally, it wouldn't have been so loud…but in a dead town, where nothing else made a sound? A car alarm was pretty damn loud in a place like that.

Already, the survivors could hear distant howls.

"Fuckin' _shit!_" Ted swore again, much louder this time. He scooped up the duffel bag, getting ready to run for his life.

Wallace bent down to Hannah, who was breathing heavily and clutching her stomach, which was still bleeding profusely. "Can you move, Hannah?" the policeman asked.

"I…" Hannah tried to stand up, but gasped at the pain and fell back. "I don't think so."

Wallace swore under his breath. "This'll probably hurt a lot, but the alternative is far worse," the police sergeant assured the blonde woman. He then crouched down and threw the woman over his shoulder, ignoring her grunts. "Here's your goddamn horde, Chuck!" the police sergeant shouted as he took off running down the street, the others hot on his heels.

"Pardon me if I don't thank you," the Bostonian grunted. "And if you call me _Chuck_ one more time, I'll knock you over the head and leave you as bait to keep the bastards occupied."

At first, there was only a light trickle of Infected that the survivors ran into as they made their way back to the river. Wallace holstered his P220 and whipped out his nightstick, brutally clubbing any undead that got in his way. It was kind of awkward, with Hannah over his shoulder, but he made do.

Charles was doing likewise with his steel pipe-truncheon. Ted, on the other hand, got much more bloody results as he put his machete to good use. But again, this was only to deal with the light trickle of Infected that presented itself at first.

After a minute or so, the survivors reached Third Avenue, and came face-to-face with an even larger wave of Infected, drawn in from the surrounding countryside by the wailing car alarm.

Seeing what was ahead of them, Wallace shouted for everyone to head for the riverbank. There was a tiny shack just barely visible in the trees lining the bank of the Allegheny River. As the survivors made for that shack, Wallace pulled out the radio he'd taken from the barge and activated it.

"Chief!" the police sergeant shouted into the walkie as he set Hannah down on the floor. "Chief, you hear me?"

The walkie was silent for a second, but then it crackled with a buzz of static and a familiar voice issued through. Not Chief's voice, though…

"_Chief'll be back in a sec; he's taking a piss over the side,_" Wallace recognized Lev's voice. "_But yeah, I hear you_. _I'm seeing a lot of activity on the shores up here; what's going on down-_"

"Lev, get the goddamn barge moving!" Wallace cut the medical intern off midsentence. "We need a pickup down here!"

"_Uh… I can't exactly drive this thing; I'd need Chief to_-"

"Listen to me, you worthless incompetent," Charles snapped, snatching the radio out of Wallace's hand. "If you don't get that boat moving _now,_ you are going to wish you'd killed me back in the city, because when I get my hands on you-"

Fortunately, Wallace wrested the radio back from Charles before the Bostonian could complete his threat. The survivors clambered into the shack and took up positions at the windows, drawing their weapons and keeping their melee instruments on hand.

As the forerunners of the Infected began to draw within range, the radio crackled again, and Chief's voice came through. "_Wallace, this is Thorpe. We're on our way. Contact me when you have a visual._"

Charles, whose weapon had the longest range, opened fire first. He'd mentioned visiting a gun range in the past, and his experience showed. He fired in short, controlled bursts, taking down individual Infected. Less experienced people would probably have gone fully automatic and fired indiscriminately into the horde—such a maneuver would have wasted most of the fired ammunition.

Ted had a TDI Vector—a kind of SMG that the group had found in a gun shop, back in the city. Hannah, unfortunately, was armed only with a Glock. Not a bad weapon, but it made a better sidearm than a primary weapon; something to use in a pinch.

Wallace used his shotgun only when the Infected who slipped past Charles and Ted made it to the windows. He used his shots sparingly, as well; his ammo was just about spent. If they didn't find more supplies in Pittsburgh, they'd be stuck traveling south with nothing but blunt instruments.

Wallace emptied a shell into the head of an Infected that attempted to vault over a windowsill and into the shack. The blast took down a second Infected that had been directly behind the first, as well.

The survivors were lucky that the majority of the horde was running right past them, heading for the source of the wailing car alarm. It was only a smaller fraction of this horde that broke off, attracted by the gunfire coming from the riverbank. Had the entire mob thrown itself against the survivors, there wouldn't have even been a fight.

Things were going relatively well—_well_ in the sense that the Infected weren't smashing through the walls. The survivors were just barely managing to keep them at bay.

Then there was a wet _snick_ sound, and Charles stopped firing all of a sudden. He fell to the floor, a slimy, greenish rope coiled around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides.

Wallace recognized it as the tongue of a smoker. The survivors had encountered two of those creatures back in the power plant where they'd found their barge. One of them had ensnared Wallace himself during their flight across the catwalks. The other had dragged Martin—a handyman from the smaller group Chief had been leading—to his death.

Though Charles had not been present for this, he must have seen a smoker during his time spent recuperating in that warehouse, as he cried out in disgust, knowing what the thing wrapped around him really was. "Get this fucking thing off of me!" he bellowed, struggling against the tongue.

Ted ceased fire as well and drew his machete, bringing it slicing down. He sheared through the part of the tongue that stretched through the window, causing the rest of it to fall slack. Charles ripped the rest of the tongue away from him, doing his best to pretend that it was indeed nothing more than a wet, slimy rope.

Ted and Charles had both of the group's mid-range weapons, and they'd stopped firing for a significant period of time. When they got back to their posts, the horde was practically throwing itself against the shack's windows.

That was when the survivors heard the roar. Wallace's mind was struck with memories of running for his life out of that power plant; a roaring tower of muscle right behind him…

He squinted into the rain and his stomach did a flip-flop. Sure enough, he could see the massive, hulking shape of a Tank, loping along on its fists, its useless trailing on the ground behind it. If that thing reached the shack, it would pound half the structure away in one blow.

It was time to move.

"Outside, outside, let's go!" Wallace grabbed Hannah and slung her back over his shoulder. Ted kicked open one of the shack's doors and led the way outside. Wallace drew his P220 and held it with his free hand. Charles and Ted did their level best to keep the Infected off the policeman, but Wallace still had to deal with the ones that slipped by.

"There it is!" Ted was gesticulating madly towards the river, where the shape of the barge was emerging from the misty rain.

Wallace holstered his P220 and grasped the radio. "Chief, it's Wallace! I see you guys; stop the damn barge!"

"_On it, Officer,_" Chief responded. Right afterwards, a dull hum was heard as the Native American engaged the barge's engines, using just enough juice to keep it stationary against the current of the river.

"Swim! Swim for it!" Wallace bellowed, wading into the river, holding his weapons and the radio out of the water and making sure he still had a firm grip on Hannah.

Charles hesitated at the edge of the water. "Have you any idea how much this suit costs-" he started to protest, but Ted ended up grabbing his arm and yanking him into the water. Not a moment too soon, either; a large chunk of rock slammed into the ground where the Bostonian had been standing just as he splashed into the Allegheny.

The Tank pounded the ground with its fists, furious at having missed its shot. It then started to continue forward, bearing down on the survivors.

None of the three survivors who were still in one piece were excellent swimmers—Hannah didn't count because she wasn't swimming; Wallace was pulling her along. But with a horde of Infected churning up right on their asses, they could have easily lapped any Olympic swimmer, the way they were going right now.

Ted was having the most difficult time, as he had to keep the supplies in the duffel bag dry as _well_ as his weapons…and, obviously, he had to keep swimming somewhat speedily to avoid getting torn apart.

The Tank didn't make it very far into the river. The sheer weight of its muscles probably would have made it sink like a millstone. The common Infected, however, were able to…kind of swim. Many of them sank below the surface once they got far enough away from the shore, and the ones that remained on the surface were more floundering than swimming.

Wallace filed that knowledge away for possible future reference. _Infected cannot swim_.

Lev tossed down a rope once the survivors reached the barge. Ted heaved the duffel bag back over his shoulder and grabbed the rope, pulling himself up hand over hand. Charles followed the coalminer up.

Wallace grabbed the rope and started pulling himself up, as well. Luckily for him, the others were hauling the rope up even as he was pulling himself, so he didn't have to do quite as much. With Hannah still on his back, that was a godsend.

Lev took one look at Hannah and swore loudly. "What the hell happened to her?" he exclaimed, helping Wallace lower the bleeding woman to the floor.

"One of those mutated Infected, the ones with claws that can pounce," Wallace explained to the medical intern. "One of those things got her."

"Lucky we still have bandages…" Lev muttered.

While Lev got several of the others to move Hannah out of the rain and into one of the cargo containers, Wallace headed up to the wheelhouse and shrugged off his body armor, revealing the blue police uniform he'd been wearing underneath.

Chief was at the helm, and he nodded to the policeman in greeting. "Success?" he asked.

"More or less," Wallace replied. "Got enough supplies to easily last us 'till Pittsburgh. Hannah got clawed, though…"

Chief tensed, remembering certain events from the foodstore back in the city. "You think she's…?"

"I don't think anything," Wallace sighed, laying his Mossberg down on one of the benches. Memories of his old friend Reginald Carson getting bitten and turning were coming back to the veteran police officer. "But I want her watched."

* * *

_I haven't written in this thing for a while. What has really happened lately worth writing about? We've been stuck on a boat this whole time. The raid into Ford City was certainly a change of pace... The supplies we gathered would probably last us into Virginia if we weren't stopping in Pittsburgh. Our main problem is ammunition. My shotgun has ten shells left. Charles and Ted are down to their last two magazines. Lev's still got a good amount of lead for his hunting rifle, and we have enough for our pistols, at least... But if things go badly in Pittsburgh, we'll soon be fighting with nothing but blunt objects and fists._

_And then, there's Hannah... Reg Carson turned after getting bitten on the ankle. Hannah wasn't bitten, but that Hunter really did a number on her... are injuries like those enough to spread the Infection?_

_God, I hope not..._

**_J.W._**


	17. Chapter 16: Pittsburgh

Chapter Sixteen: Pittsburgh

Jerome Wallace had been dreading this moment ever since the near-disaster in Ford City.

Several weeks ago, back when the policeman had escaped from that foodstore near General Hospital, he had been forced to kill a woman named Amanda. They were climbing up a ladder to the foodstore's roof, but the horde had caught her, and…well, when Wallace put a bullet in her forehead, had she been capable of speech, she would have thanked him.

And then Wallace had been forced to kill Reginald Carson, his close friend from the police force. That had shaken him pretty bad, to put it lightly…but lately, he had been able to put his mind somewhat at ease as he focused on one simple thing; protecting himself and his own.

Lev, Ted, Hannah, Chief, Henry, and even Charles seemed to have put their faith in the policeman to lead them through Hell…and he had resolved to do exactly that. So when they had returned to the barge from Ford City, after Hannah had gotten clawed by a hunter, he had been forced to keep the blonde woman under constant watch.

She hadn't complained—Hannah knew that if she was infected, she could get everyone else killed if they didn't keep her under close surveillance. Wallace had already resolved that if she turned, he would be the one to put her to rest…he knew that Charles would have no problem pulling the trigger, but Wallace refused to use the Bostonian like an executioner.

It had been three days, now. Back in the foodstore near General Hospital, the people sick with the Green Flu had turned in little more than a single day. If Hannah wasn't a bloodthirsty corpse by now…either her wounds weren't enough to warrant infection, or she was immune.

Wallace stepped out of the wheelhouse and into the misty rain. Chief was still at the helm, keeping the barge in the middle of the Allegheny. The Pittsburgh skyline was visible in the distance, now. The shores were no longer thick with trees, anymore; there were suburbs and small towns lining the banks of the Allegheny River.

Harrison Township, Lower Burrell, New Kensington, Springdale Borough…one by one, the smaller communities on the outskirts of Pittsburgh slid past as the barge made its way into the metropolis.

Wallace strode over to the cargo container that Hannah was being kept in. It had been cracked open slightly so that fresh air could waft inside, and also so that meals could be slipped in. Henry and Charles had both stood watch in shifts, listening and waiting for her to show signs of turning.

The policeman met Lev on the way to the cargo container and gestured for him to follow. "It's time," he said to the medical intern.

Lev fell into step alongside the policeman, accompanying him over to Hannah's cargo container. Wallace gave Henry a quick nod. The older, gray-haired man in the yellow sweater picked up his Mossberg, which he had leaned against the doors of the container, and pulled the cargo container open.

Hannah sat in the far corner, her knees tucked up to her chest. She squinted as she got the full brunt of the daylight. "Hello, again," she rasped.

"How're you feeling, Hannah?" Wallace called over to her.

"You have a nice body, Officer, but I don't feel any urge to eat you, yet," the blonde woman answered flatly.

Just hearing those words sent relief flooding through Wallace in waves. Infected don't speak. She hadn't turned within the past few hours. But still…at least _some_ precautions had to be taken. "Check her, Doc," the policeman nodded to the medical intern.

Lev, who had finally stopped protesting about being called _Doc_ by the others, stepped into the cargo container and crouched down next to the blonde woman. To be perfectly honest, he really didn't know what he was checking for because he knew absolutely nothing about the Green Flu.

Still…from what he had heard about the Green Flu's symptoms over the past few weeks, he knew that infected people ended up developing a hacking cough, they would become feverish, their body temperature go down, and their heart rate would speed up. He did not know the relationship between the Infection and those symptoms. It was, quite simply, the way it was.

Lev checked Hannah's vitals. After he was done, he was quite satisfied that she was not showing any symptoms of infection. Of course, this was based solely on his unprofessional opinion…but seeing as the blonde woman wasn't delirious or even feverish after three days, it was safe to assume that the hunter hadn't infected her.

Or maybe she was one of those alleged 'immunes' he'd been hearing about over the radio. There was no way to be certain which was the case. But as long as Hannah was alive and kicking… Lev saw no reason why they should ever need to find out. Better to simply be grateful for the small amount of luck and move on without asking questions.

"Just going off my opinion, here, Officer," Lev reminded Wallace, "but she seems alright to me. None of the symptoms of infection are there…quite frankly, she looks pretty good."

Hannah winked at the medical intern as she got back up to her feet and walked out of the container. Lev instantly flushed. "I didn't mean it like…good for someone who's spent three days locked in a cargo container! I didn't mean…" The medical intern was still rambling even as he ducked out of the cargo container.

Wallace's mouth twitched in a faint smile as he watched Lev stumble past. Henry arched an eyebrow, pushing the doors of the cargo container shut. "Wonder how long it's been since he got laid?" the policeman quirked.

Henry gave a low grunt of a chuckle. "Probably forever."

"My man," Wallace laughed quietly as well, clapping the older man on the shoulder.

Honestly, Hannah's clean bill of health, so to speak, couldn't have come at a better time. The barge, by now, was edging into Pittsburgh proper. Urban sprawl dominated the banks of the river, now. Those old smells of Wallace, Henry, and Ted's home that the group had left behind—smoke, ash, death, decay—were back in full force.

Destruction and ruin were everywhere. The military had slammed the city pretty hard. Though the bombs could not have been dropped recently, pillars of black smoke still climbed into the sky. It was still raining lightly, but even the clouds had a hellish red glow about them.

Lone Infected could be seen milling about the ruins from the barge. The extra-mutated Infected—_Special_ Infected, the survivors had started calling them—were not spotted from the large boat, but every so often Wallace would catch a glimpse of a flitting shadow, or an odd puff of smoke, or pools of bubbling, yellowish-green liquid. Even if they were hidden from view, the evidence of the Specials' presence was in plain sight.

Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the distance, suggesting the survival of at least a bare handful of individuals. But Wallace's group could tell just by a single glance that Pittsburgh did not look like a National Guard holdout. Contact with the Pennsylvania National Guard unit holding out in Pittsburgh had been lost five or six days ago; the survivors had hoped for the best, but feared the worst.

And now, it would seem that it was their fears that would be realized; not their hopes.

Pittsburgh was abandoned.

"Why am I not surprised?" Charles muttered, anger bubbling just beneath the surface, surveying the carnage and ruin. "Isn't this how it always is in all the stories and movies? Military has a hold-out. Survivors hear about said hold-out. Survivors grow hopeful. Survivors arrive at said hold-out and, lo and behold…there's no one. Fucking. _There!_" the Bostonian screamed that last bit, delivering a powerful kick to the side of the barge.

The others cast startled glances over to the Bostonian; outbursts such as those were rather out-of-character for him. When they happened, you knew things had just gone from shitty to shittier.

But, as quickly as it had slipped, Charles's usual composure returned. He ran a hand through his short brown hair and let out a long sigh, forcing his emotions back down. "What now, Officer Jerome?" he asked Wallace.

Wallace's brow twitched slightly in a frown at the offhanded use of his first name, but the policeman quickly brushed his initial reaction aside. "We'll continue through the city by river. If we don't encounter the military, we'll continue south."

"And how exactly are we going to 'continue south', as you put it?" Charles raised an eyebrow. He rapped the side of the barge with his knuckles. "Grateful as I am to this hunk of scrap metal for getting us this far, I'm afraid it has outlived its usefulness."

"The Monongahela River runs south of here into West Virgin-" Wallace started to explain, but the Bostonian quickly cut him off.

"I've come to Pittsburgh for company meetings before the whole apocalypse thing started going down," Charles explained. "In the middle of the city is the convergence point where the three rivers meet; the Allegheny—which we are currently floating on—from the northeast, the Monongahela from the south, and the Ohio, which flows west. It isn't really a convergence point, though; it is simply where the Monongahela and the Allegheny combine to form the Ohio River. Get the picture? The Monongahela River flows _north,_ not south. We cannot use it."

"The barge still has engines," Lev pointed out. "Couldn't we use those?"

"The engines for this thing aren't very strong," Chief replied. Ted was currently in the wheelhouse, steering the barge, freeing the burly Native American up for the discussion. "A barge like this is normally supposed to be pulled along by tugboats. And besides, there was never very much fuel in the engines to begin with."

"Not to mention the rain," Henry pointed out, absentmindedly adjusting the clear plastic poncho that he was wearing over his yellow sweater and slacks. "With all this precipitation we've been getting lately, the rivers are swollen. Their currents are stronger than normal. We'd be trying to fight an overpowered current with weak, under-fueled engines. We wouldn't make it past the outskirts."

"It's settled, then," Wallace declared, satisfied by the arguments. "We need to find an alternate method of transportation. But the first order of business is that we should at least ride this thing down to the mouth of the Ohio—I'd rather get off directly on the South Side, rather than getting off in the Golden Triangle and having to cross a bridge. I'd really like to stay off city bridges."

Charles frowned again. "If we're trying to get to the east coast, we'd be blocked by the Monongahela if we got off on the south side."

"Yeah, but I'd rather cross a bridge once we're a good ways out of the city," Wallace replied. "The alternative is fighting our way through downtown Pittsburgh. Any takers?"

No one gave any form of approval. Charles, seeing the policeman's logic, nodded once and fell silent.

"Aight, people, let's get packing!"

For the next hour or so, the survivors scrambled to pack up all of their gear. The camp stoves, the pot, the fuel canisters _for_ the camp stoves, the food supplies, the water filters, and any of the other non-combat supplies were distributed among the survivors. By now, all of them had picked up some form of bag, satchel, or backpack back up in the northwest in order to store their spare ammunition. Now, they stuffed those bags with the supplies.

And on top of all that, the survivors then gathered up all of their personal gear—i.e. weapons and what meager ammunition remained. With fewer survivors, it would probably have been too much to handle. But Wallace's group comprised of seven people, including the policeman. Between seven people, the loads were much more manageable.

Wallace could only imagine how smaller groups of survivors were faring. Sure, they'd probably be faster and more mobile, having less people to worry about…but how did they keep themselves fed? The Infected weren't the only danger out there; there was still hunger, thirst, and exposure that survivors needed to worry about.

By the time the survivors finished packing up, the barge was gliding smoothly past the Point. Downtown Pittsburgh comprised of the triangular portion of the city, bordered by the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers—this part of the city was usually called the 'Golden Triangle', as Wallace had mentioned earlier. The Point was the very tip of that triangle, where it jutted out into the intersection of the three rivers.

Chief relieved Ted from the helm and took control of the barge. The moment they were clear of the point, he turned as far as he could into the current of the Monongahela River. The barge had enough momentum to cut right through the current, but it was still slowly getting pushed into the Ohio River.

"See those containers, there?" Chief shouted down to Wallace from the wheelhouse, pointing ahead and to the right of the barge's front.

Wallace looked in the direction the Gulf War veteran was indicating. Lining the bank of the South Side was a railroad that ran more or less through the entire city. Though the train engine was nowhere to be seen, there were several cargo containers—similar to the ones on the barge, in fact—that were resting idly on the tracks. A few of them had been derailed, and they were sprawled along the slope running from the tracks down to the river. There were two or three that had slid into the river itself and piled on top of one another.

"Yeah, Chief, I see 'em!" the policeman hollered back.

"I'm going to send us right into those containers!" Chief yelled down. "There's no other place to dock on the South Side, and those containers are too far upstream for me to get up alongside them and drop anchor, so we'll have to do this quick! Get everyone up front; once we hit the containers, we'll hop off!"

Wallace didn't waste any time trying to question the plan. He turned from the wheelhouse and started barking orders. As Chief had requested, Wallace herded everyone up to the very front of the barge.

"Normally this is when I point out how yet another of our esteemed colleagues has lost his goddamn mind," Charles was pointing out as the survivors gathered at the bow of the ship. "But you know what? I'm starting to think it's those of us who _haven't_ lost our goddamn minds who are the odd ones. Insanity has become the new sanity, so to speak."

"People stopped listenin' to what you were sayin' five minutes ago, Massachusetts," Ted remarked, leaning against the rail, waiting for the barge to arrive at the riverbank.

"Funny; I've only been speaking for about fifteen seconds," Charles retorted.

"_Both_ of you shut up; how 'bout that?" Henry grunted. "I swear, the two of you love the sounds of your own voices too damn much."

Wallace kept his gaze fixed on the rapidly approaching cargo containers. They were still a bit out to the right of the barge's front, but the current of the Monongahela River was pushing the barge steadily towards them.

Chief stayed up in the wheelhouse, keeping a firm hand on the helm, making sure the barge didn't stray from its course. It wasn't until the barge was nearly on top of the cargo containers that the Native American left his post. He felt the barge immediately begin to turn with the currents as he let the helm go, but it wouldn't be enough to keep it from crashing into those cargo containers. Still, though…he didn't want to be marooned alone on the barge as it was swept westward on the Ohio River, so he moved quickly.

Chief grabbed his Desert Eagle and the rest of his supplies before hauling ass out of the wheelhouse. He headed out onto the upper deck and slid down one of the ladders to the main deck, using the slippery, wet metal to his advantage.

He was about halfway to the front of the barge when it made contact with the cargo containers. The containers themselves didn't move very much—the barge had already lost most of its momentum, so it pretty much only tapped them. After the initial impact, Ted was the first to hop down from the bow of the ship to the container. The others followed him, one by one.

Chief reached the bow of the ship just as Wallace, who had waited for everyone else to go before him, jumped. The burly Native American followed suit, landing perfectly on his feet on top of one of the partially submerged cargo containers. The barge remained relatively in place for a few more seconds, but the currents quickly took hold and began to pull the large ship into the Ohio River. Chief straightened up and watched the barge float away.

"Everyone remember to thank that ship!" the Native American exclaimed. "She got us this far."

Charles rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath again, but most of the others paid some form of respect to the barge. Wallace himself quietly thanked the boat and gave it a respectful nod before turning and helping Chief off of the submerged cargo container and onto dry land. The seven survivors regrouped on the train tracks.

"So, where to now?" Lev asked, voicing the collective opinion of the group.

To be honest, Wallace had no idea where exactly they should go. All he really knew was a general direction. Nonetheless, he had to appear as if he knew everything; that was something any self-respecting person in a position of leadership had to do. "We'll follow the river southeast," he decided. "We keep following the Monongahela, eventually we'll run into the I-70, which'll take us further east. If we can find vehicles along the way, we'll be set. At least for a little while..."

"You really think we'll be able to use the highways?" Hannah asked. "I mean, back up northwest we weren't able to escape with a car because all the major roads were choked with abandoned cars and Infected. What makes you think an interstate highway will be any different? PA is where Infection broke out...there were a lot of people clogging up the main roads, trying to get the hell out."

Wallace had to admit that he hadn't considered that. He'd been so focused on reaching Pittsburgh that he hadn't quite thought about how they'd leave the city. Until recently, he'd assumed the military would airlift them out of the city. Still, though...lately, he'd just been taking things one day at a time. But he knew he'd have to start thinking ahead if he didn't want to get his group killed. The others could take it one day at a time, but Wallace, being the de facto leader of his group, could not be afforded such a luxury.

"We'll walk out of the city and use back roads, if we need to. Shit, if push comes to shove, we'll hike through the wilderness," Wallace said. "There are a lot of ways out of Pittsburgh."

But already, Wallace was beginning to worry. One doesn't simply 'walk' out of one of the second-largest city in Pennsylvania. Not to say that it was impossible, but it would be incredibly difficult, as Pittsburgh appeared to be heavily infested. Seven survivors had entered the city...and the odds of all seven leaving it weren't too good.

Regardless, the group had to keep moving. The Monongahela River would provide them with guidance, for the moment.

Fate, however, seemed to have different plans for the seven survivors from the northwest.

There was a small number of Infected milling about the railroad tracks. Because of the situating with ammunition, the survivors used their melee instruments to deal with them. They would usually take turns—someone would get up close and whistle, or make some other form of noise. The Infected would notice them, charge them, and get its skull bashed in as a reward.

The survivors had been repeating this process, making their way along the rails for a good ten or so minutes, when the rifle shot shattered the tentative silence of the dead, rainy city.

Several things happened at once.

Hannah, the intended target of the shot, experienced the luck of the Irish when she stepped on a rock and nearly lost her balance. The wounds she'd sustained from getting pounced by a hunter back in Ford City flared with pain, forcing her to stop to adjust her satchel. Had she continued walking, the bullet would have drilled through her right temple.

Charles, who had nearly been killed by Lev in a similar incident, had already flicked his gaze upwards the moment the gunshot rang out. Mount Washington was a neighborhood on the South Side of Pittsburgh that was significantly elevated over the rest of the city. If someone was standing in Mount Washington, they'd normally have a beautiful view of downtown Pittsburgh and the three rivers. Now, of course, it wasn't quite so nice of a view, anymore.

The small neighborhood that was stretched along this portion of the Monongahela River was called the South Shore. The South Shore was separated from Mount Washington by a steep, almost vertical slope. It used to be covered with trees and greenery, but the firestorm that had engulfed Pittsburgh had burned most of the trees down. The slope was now covered with dead wood, burnt tree stumps, and blackened grass.

If you were standing right at the base of the hill, you wouldn't be able to see the neighborhood up top, but from the bank of the river, Charles was able to see the rail lining the road that hugged the top of the ridge. He could see the tall office building behind the rail, and—most importantly—he was able to see the muzzle flash of the shooter's rifle when he/she took another shot.

Wallace heard the first shot, and some sort of primal instinct took over. While Charles was looking up towards Mount Washington, he was pushing the others off the tracks and into an adjacent parking lot, where most of them took cover behind the cars. By the time the second shot rang out, there was no one left out in the open to shoot, except Charles.

The Bostonian, however, was not going to hang around and give the shooter a chance to take a third shot. The instant after the second shot, he was already diving behind the wreck of a Dodge pickup. He called over to Lev and gave him the location of the sniper.

Lev flicked off his hunting rifle's safety and crawled around the edge of the pickup, quickly finding the spot that the Bostonian had indicated. After taking a few seconds to take aim, he opened fire, shooting a single round up at the sniper.

Silence.

"You get him?" Henry hollered over from his cover after waiting for a third shot that never came.

"Did I kill him? No," Lev shook his head, lowering his rifle. "I just put a round right past his feet. When I took a shot at you guys, it was because I thought you were Infected. That guy up there is pretty far away, and the rain is making visibility really iffy. He probably thought we were ghouls. Well, ghouls don't shoot back, so..." the medical intern moved out from behind the pickup truck and stood up, holding his rifle up over his head.

The figure at the top of the ridge, barely visible in the rain, could be seen doing likewise with his/her own weapon. Lev's theory appeared to be correct.

Unfortunately, the gunfire seemed to have attracted a good amount of the nearby Infected. Lev shot several of the ghouls down at a distance, and the others finished the surviving Infected off with their melee instruments. Once the initial wave was taken care of, Wallace started herding his group across the parking lot. The South Shore neighborhood's size came from its length—it occupied a good-sized portion of the bank of the Monongahela River. Depth-wise, however... The distance from the river to the ridge was less than a thousand feet. It was quite possible to walk through the South Shore in a matter of minutes.

Wallace kept up a steady pace. There was a large complex comprising of a steakhouse and several other restaurants beyond the parking lot, which Wallace and company had to circumnavigate in order to reach East Carson Street, which ran along the base of the ridge. They weren't able to simply climb up to Mount Washington, though; the slope leading up to the higher areas of the South Side ended in a sheer rock face when it reached the ground level.

What saved the survivors from having to take a long detour to find a roadway that led to Mount Washington was the Monongahela Incline. Charles was the one who pointed it out as they started walking down East Carson Street. It was a tram rail that ran straight up from a station on East Carson Street to a sister station on Grandview Avenue, at the very top of the ridge. It actually appeared to emerge right near the place where the sniper had been shooting from.

The trams themselves had been destroyed a long time ago, but the rails were still intact—forming, in essence, a ramp that the survivors could use to walk onto Mount Washington. A shortcut, basically.

The lower station was a quaint little building that looked like it belonged in another decade. Half of the second floor had been blown to hell by the firebombing, but the tracks themselves were still intact, which was what was important. Wallace wanted to get inside; he didn't like being on a street that shared the name of the friend he'd been forced to kill.

Wallace hesitated at the entrance. He could hear Infected inside, but he could hear something else... A horrible gurgling noise that made his skin crawl. He only hesitated for a moment. He kicked open the door and took one step inside before he felt something warm and slimy splatter across his back.

_Fuck_... was the first thing that went through the policeman's mind. He then screamed the profanity at the top of his lungs. He grabbed his Mossberg and racked the pump as he spun around. He fired the shotgun, putting a shell right into the boomer that had been lurking behind the doorway. He jumped back to avoid the explosion of bile.

He had already gotten plenty of boomer puke on his back, though. He knew from firsthand experience that the viscous green, slimy crap that the boomers vomited was like catnip to the Infected; they could sense it from great distances, and they would go batshit crazy when they did.

Even now, the policeman could hear the distant howls of a rapidly-approaching horde. The survivors had virtually no ammunition left; fending off individual or pairs of ghouls was one thing, but fighting a horde with nothing but blunt objects was fucking suicide. With _fight_ no longer being a feasible option, the survivors had to embrace the alternative: _flight_.

There were a few other Infected in the room and on the upper floor, but Wallace killed every single one that charged him as his companions hurried into the station.

"What the hell just-" Henry started to exclaim, but Wallace cut him off.

"Boomer retched on my back, no time to talk! Everyone upstairs!" the policeman bellowed. "Move, move, _move!_"

The survivors scrambled up onto the second floor. As the forerunners of the incoming horde started bursting into the bottom floor and climbing up the sides of the building, the seven survivors were sprinting out of the back of the station and onto the rails of the Monongahela Incline. The rails ran up to Mount Washington at nearly a forty-five degree angle, so running up them was no walk in the park.

However, having a horde of bloodthirsty people-turned-animals at one's back could turn even the most obese person into an Olympic track star. None of the survivors could recall ever running as fast in their past lives as they ran right now. Within a minute, the seven survivors had reached the top of the Monongahela Incline.

Wallace led the way into the upper station, cracking a long Infected across the head with his nightstick as he clambered down the stairs. The policeman didn't even bother with opening the door; he simply sprinted straight into it with its shoulder. The door, unable to resist over two-hundred pounds of muscular, adrenaline-pumped African-American, burst from its hinges and flew halfway across Grandview Avenue.

The survivors stumbled out of the station and immediately turned to the right, where the sniper had been shooting at them from. The side of Grandview Avenue that overlooked the rest of the city was empty; the sniper had moved. At first, Wallace began to panic, thinking the sniper had fled.

However, a sharp whistle nipped those fears in the bud. A shorter, wiry man dressed in camouflage fatigues, wielding some sort of military rifle with a scope attached to the top was standing at the entrance to that tall office building Charles had seen from the riverside. "Over here!" the man shouted over to the survivors, waving for them to hurry up. "You have a horde right behind you; _move_ your asses!"

"Thank you for the reminder!" Charles shot back.

The office building was the Steel City Service Inc. building on the corner of Grandview and Shiloh. The survivors ducked into the building as the horde of Infected began pouring out of the upper station of the Monongahela Incline. The man in fatigues locked the doors behind them and sprinted for the stairs. "C'mon, we gotta move!" he was shouting. "Gotta beat 'em to the roof!"

Adrenaline was roaring through the survivors, by now, so they didn't stop to ask questions; they just _bolted_. A few Infected ran right into the doors and bounced right off. They tried kicking and banging on them, but they did not give. The vast majority of the Infected, however, started climbing up the sides of the building, making for the roof.

Wallace could see the stranger's logic—if they made it to the roof first, they could simply kill the Infected by knocking them off the side of the building. If the Infected made it first, the survivors would have to worry about clearing the roof of Infected that were getting constantly reinforced.

Gunfire could be heard from above as the survivors climbed the stairs to the roof. The building itself was eleven or twelve stories high, so everyone's legs were burning up pretty good by the time they reached the top. Between sprinting up twelve floors and the Monongahela Incline, the survivors had more or less fulfilled their daily workout requirements.

Finally, the survivors burst out onto the roof. There were three other people already on the roof, fending off the Infected that were climbing up from below. There was an older lady who had to be in her sixties or early seventies, a boy who looked around thirteen or fourteen, and a young man in his mid-twenties.

Not bothering with introductions quite yet, Wallace's group quickly pitched in. They had no ammunition to shoot at the incoming Infected, so they settled for waiting for the ghouls to reach the lip of the roof before braining them with their melee instruments.

There was a single incident where a smoke ensnared one of the strangers, but the man in the fatigues quickly sniped it with his scoped weapon. Other than that slight hiccup, keeping the rest of the Infected off the roof was actually not too difficult of a task.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the onslaught of Infected ceased, leaving the office building with a nice welcome mat of corpses sprawled out in front. The adrenaline thundering through the survivors' systems was now able to subside. Only now did Wallace start feeling how exhausted his body really was.

The policeman gave a nod of thanks to the man in the fatigues while his companions dropped their supplies and found places to sit down. "Thanks for the helping hand, friend," Wallace said. "Though we could'a done without the sniper shots."

"Thought you people were ghouls," the man in camouflage shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. Glad I didn't hit any of you, at least."

Charles started muttering, again, when he heard that.

Wallace narrowed his eyes as he gazed at the stranger. His camouflage and his military-issue weapon prompted the policeman to ask the foremost question on his mind. "We heard over the radio about a unit of Pennsylvania National Guard holding out here," Wallace explained to the stranger. "Are you part of it? What happened?"

The stranger's already-serious expression grew even more solemn as he gave the news that Wallace had been both dreading and expecting. "_I'm_ the Pennsylvania National Guard. Just me... I think I'm all that's left."


End file.
